


The History of Tango

by CBlue



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Beta Read, Cello Player!Jaskier, Courting Rituals, M/M, Pining, Reluctant Courting, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, War Veteran!Geralt, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: In the wake of the war against Nilfgaard, countries like Redenia find themselves lacking in both fortune and name. When Earl de Lettenhove arranges a marriage for his son - the promiscuous cellist Jaskier - in the form of a notorious war veteran, Jaskier must acclimate to his new found courtship. Jaskier hasn’t the faintest of ideas as to why his mother might insist that he court the man he is already promised to marry, but he soon finds out that some courtships are not roses and strolls. Some courtships are horses and dandelions. Balancing a new composition, auditions for an infamous orchestra, and the abhorrent Valdo Marx will not nearly bring him to his wits end as much as verbally combating Lord Geralt of Rivia on the differences between weeds and wildflowers.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter One: The Wildflower

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated first and foremost to everyone over at [@geraltjaskierbigbang](https://geraltjaskierbigbang.tumblr.com/). They have been such a wonderful group to work with and hang out with. They've been so inspiring and so supportive, from the strong modding to the writers' room being the coolest table at the school 😎. I'd also like to dedicate this work to my teammates: My Wonderful Life-Saving Beta ([@underwaterattribute](https://underwaterattribute.tumblr.com/)) and The Ever Talented Artist ([verobatto](https://verobatto-messy-art.tumblr.com/)). While my beta was hard-working, any mistakes in grammar, continuity, or bad endings are my responsibility. But thanks to you both for being such amazing cheerleaders.
> 
> Some more cheerleaders and inspiration I'd like to thank are my two adopted children. I love you both dearly and you really kept my spirits up while working on this. Lastly, I'd like to thank [@magess](https://magess.tumblr.com/) because honestly, what a lovely and talented author. Without Magess, I definitely don't think I would have been confident enough to have pulled out _this many words_. So thanks to all of you, and I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Please go support the art post by checking it out [here!!!](https://verobatto-messy-art.tumblr.com/post/638358033352835072/hi-im-so-happy-to-show-you-the-artwork-i-made)

If there was one thing that Jaskier could find agreeable about the eccentric Countess Yennefer of Vengerberg, it was her taste. Well, that and her disregard for social etiquette. Together, it made the woman rather impressive. The Countess had not married into her title, having been bequeathed it in some dramatic fashion that Jaskier had heard no less than three versions of. The people did love their gossip, especially when it surrounded such a scandalous figure.

The Countess was draped in the latest fashion, dark fabric thin and showing off much more of her glowing skin than what last season’s dress would have. Jaskier had not expected anything less of the Redenian court, stirring at her descent from the grand staircase. Countess Yennefer of Vengerberg had much preferred a dramatic entrance to her own party rather than greeting her guests in the proper fashion. Then again, Jaskier muttered, what did Redenia know of fashion if they thought the shimmering skirt of Countess Vengerberg’s dress was untoward?

His father, Earl de Lettenhove, and subsequently every well to do Redenian, had kept a solid three seasons behind any current fashion. The ladies’ gloves were still longer, caressing their biceps in a loose hold. Their skirts were rippled and bowed as opposed to the sheer cut of the Countess’. Jaskier would not expect any lady to match the height of fashion that the Countess could afford, but even his own mother had not kept to the city parlors for hats and dresses as one might have expected.

Jaskier fiddled with the cuff of his suit jacket. Another fossil of the Lettenhove house. His father, while otherwise uncaring in the proceedings of Jaskier’s arranged courtship, had insisted he be dressed in what Earl de Lettenhove had deemed acceptable fashion. Acceptable fashion had been trousers that did his posterior no favors and cuffs that were almost as loose as his mother’s gloves.

Sighing, Jaskier smiled and made to throw himself into the throng. His mother paused his steps, gently gripping at his elbow. The dainty fabric made her hands look delicate against the stark red of Jaskier’s jacket. “Jaskier,” she spoke softly, “please.”

She hadn’t a need to be frank with her words. The plea was already transparent. _Don’t make a scene_ , she asked. _Don’t jeopardize this arrangement_. Jaskier heard her. Already, during his time at Oxenfurt, he had sullied the Lettenhove name with his jovial approach to his studies and social life. It was not yet in fashion to frolic in younger years. Why tie himself down when he still had so much exploring to do? Why arrange himself in such a way that he could not possibly fall in love?

The decorum of courtship was not quite amenable to _really_ getting to know someone. You knew someone by how they laughed when no one was watching. What songs they would sing without judgment. Instead, courtship was of the arrangement of chaperones and meetings that were filled with stiff negotiation and perhaps at most a sense of kinship over a sealed fate. It made Jaskier’s collar feel tighter around his throat, made his fingers itch to play in need of some distraction.

Despite the innate want to feel, Jaskier nodded feebly to his mother. She smiled politely, releasing his arm and allowing him to make his way toward a server with drinks. It had been quite some time since Jaskier had been home, having studied and boarded at Oxenfurt. He had not recognized many of the people here at the Countess’ party.

Rather unfortunate, Jaskier thought bitterly, as it left him quite to his own at the moment. Gracefully taking a drink from the platter with a glistening smile, Jaskier let himself be consumed by watching the court goers as opposed to joining the fray. There was not much point in joining the merrymaking this evening, was there? Jaskier was already being tied off. A rather large mark painted to his forehead forbidding him from being touched.

Not while he was to be engaged to Lord Geralt of Rivia. Baron of Kaer Morhen, Lord Vesemir Kaer Morhen, would be in attendance tonight with his entourage - the Lord Rivia included. It was only by name that Jaskier knew his intended, by rumor that he had some vague awareness of his visage, but Jaskier was not overly excited with his prospects.

Jaskier had not strictly been aiming for a brattish repertoire when he spoke that the house of Kaer Morhen was of ill-repute. His mother had cleverly replied that he had little other prospects with his own promiscuous behaviour being scrutinized by any possible courter. Lord Rivia had an ill-manner about him, grunting his way through societal norms rather than building up a witty dialogue. Jaskier could admit the hypocrisy in judging Lord Rivia by societal standards, but the reputation was rather unappealing. At least even the Countess had some charm to her utterly futuristic demeanor and attitude.

In layman's terms, Jaskier was - at his heart - a _conversationalist_ . The rumors surrounding the Lord Rivia’s skills in the matter were that he was lacking. If Jaskier was not to find love in marriage, was it too much of a request to seek companionship? To be able to have his wit matched, his charm valued, even if not in romantic affairs? Would he turn to wedlocked lovers? Would _Lord Rivia_?

Tumultuous thoughts prattled along in Jaskier’s skull. He was stricken with the notion of being imprisoned in his marriage. Surely, if the Lord Rivia would not provide companionship, he would not prevent Jaskier from finding it? He had not heard the words _cruel_ being accompanied with the Lord Rivia’s company, but then again how intimately did one know a person before they were wed?

A welcome distraction in the form of the party’s host graced Jaskier’s visage. Turning a polite smile with an equally formal bow to the Countess Vengerberg, Jaskier reached for her delicate hand and properly kissed the knuckles. “A lovely party you’ve held this evening, Countess Vengerberg.” Jaskier allowed the Countess’ hand to slip from his own.

The Countess raised a perfectly thinned eyebrow and smirked rather dangerously in reply. “Viscount de Lettenhove, Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz.” Her purr was much like a panther lurking in the wilds that Jaskier had read about.

Eyes wide and painted with an impressed expression, Jaskier chuckled politely. “I am honored that the gracious Countess has taken the time to know all of those that she invites.” He raised his glass in a gentle toast. “It is flattering, my dear hostess.”

Rolling her eyes, the Countess’s face gave no hint as to the thoughts that crossed her mind. Jaskier was only privy to those thoughts that she voiced. What she spoke was, “It would be rather awkward if I _hadn’t_ known whom I invited to my drum, wouldn’t it?”

Quick as a whip, the Countess Vengerberg was. Every bit holding up to her rumored aura and more. Jaskier could admit to feeling almost intimidated in her presence - not that he would ever utter that secret to another soul. Clearing his throat with a sip of the champagne, Jaskier continued, “Not all pay attention to such things. It shows a bit of a personal touch that I’m sure Dutchess Tissia de Vries admires you for.”

This quip seemed to pique the Countess’ interest. Certainly not a tell, but a subtle rise of her eyebrow and her violet eyes turned to amethyst. “Do you know Tissia?” Bemusement colored her voice. Jaskier was certain many a potential suitor had spoken themselves into a corner trying to flatter themselves in the Countess’ eye.

“Not personally, I should say,” Jaskier confessed easily, “but when one has an ear to the court, they hear many tales and one might find that the truth lies somewhere in the intermedian.”

“Do you often listen to gossip, Lord Lettenhove?” Countess Vengerberg’s eyes narrowed. If Jaskier had felt but prey before, now he was an ant beneath the powerful boot of social power. One wrong foot placed within his mouth and not only would Jaskier’s family name be besmirched, but his engagement with Lord Rivia would be fully jeopardized.

Swallowing around the retort he so desperately wished he was free to reply with, Jaskier smiled beatifically. “I think that gossip speaks more to the gossiper than the gossiped about, Countess Vengerberg,” he winked charmingly - boyishly - for good measure, “and observing whom one plans to socialize with can never do any more harm than it does good for awareness.”

Countess Vengerberg raised her chin. Her eyes remained narrow, but a flicker changed their color swiftly. Something deep and royal like silks, Jaskier had thought, as opposed to the harsh gem cut that they had once been. Whatever test Jaskier was meant to have passed, it seemed he was successful in, for in the next moment Countess Vengerberg was reaching for the fold of his arm.

“Come with me, Lord Lettenhove,” she commanded, though her tone was deceptively lighter. “I believe I shall take the pleasure in introducing you to your promised.”

Jaskier could feel the color drain from his face. He knew the proper social function was that he was to be introduced to his promised tomorrow in the presence of his parents. For the Countess Vengerberg to skirt propriety was not unheard of for her character, but most certainly not a good courtly impression. Not that Jaskier had any plans to contradict the will of the beautifully powerful and nearly dangerous Countess.

“Do you know Lord Rivia?” He mirrored Countess Vengerberg’s inquiry. He had not heard any gossip connecting the reclusive Lord of Rivia to the rather outgoing and scandalous Countess of Vengerberg, but this was once more not something entirely unexpected from either of their characters.

An almost vicious smile stretched across Countess Vengerberg’s face. “Almost too much,” she laughed haughtily, but not unkindly. “In our younger years we had known one another…”

The _intimately_ was left unsaid although Jaskier heard it clearly. A rather telling quirk of her features told Jaskier that she expected no rebuttal, considering his prior state of wanderlust. But what else was one to do when faced with his future promised’s ex-lover? Surely, they were no longer intimate if the Countess spoke in the past tense. Was Lord Rivia hoping to rekindle his relations with her when moving to Redenia? Jaskier’s mother had not spoken as to whether the intention was for Jaskier to move closer to the Lord Vesemir’s estates or if Lord Rivia planned to live closer to them.

Oh, Melitele, what if that _was_ what he wanted? Why hadn’t Lord Rivia just proposed to the Countess instead? Was it to save her reputation of deceivingly unmarried and free-spirit? Jaskier hadn’t actually given _real_ thought as to if Lord Rivia would take a lover. Would his husband permit him his freedom as well? Would he _care_ if his husband permitted? What sort of scandal would that create for his poor mother were the ton to discover?

Seeming to sense his unease, Countess Vengerberg squeezed his elbow lightly. “Of course, as handsome and _charming_ as Geralt can be, that candle has long since burned to nothing but wax remnants.”

“Even remnants are remains, my dear,” Jaskier spoke softly, not having meant to voice his thoughts to her so easily. “I cannot hold it against him that you held his eye,” and that was partially true. Jaskier was not foolish enough to think he would be the sole attention of a man he had never met. It most certainly left impossibly rich heels to fill, but Jaskier was beginning to suspect that Lord Rivia was just as if not _more_ reluctant than Jaskier was for this courtship.

“You’re very flattering, Lord Lettenhove,” she spoke flatly, “I hope you know that in my presence, flattery does very little.”

“Ah,” Jaskier smiled albeit a bit twisted, “ _everyone_ loves to be complimented, Countess Vengerberg. Whether I achieve favor is of little consequence when my heart sings bardish sentiments to all beautiful things.”

Countess Vengerberg’s once vicious smile softened slightly, “A rather refreshing honesty even if it is chokingly poetic.” She allowed her grip to loosen as they made their way through the crowded socialites. “I’m not sure if I like you as of yet, Lord Lettenhove.”

“The sentiment is mutual, Countess Vengerberg,” Jaskier’s words escaped him carelessly. He could not find it within himself to be more tactful when the Countess herself seemed to alight with rebuttals. Perhaps there was that sliver of truth to her statement in that she sought for refreshingly honest persons. Or perhaps Jaskier was about to be sentenced to social death.

Laughing genuinely, Countess Vengerberg pulled Jaskier toward the near corner, hidden beneath the grand stairs of her manner. “A rather proud peacock you are for a viscount in the company of a countess.”

“Perhaps,” Jaskier spoke before Countess Vengerberg halted their steps. They had stopped just short of a trio of men. The furthest to Jaskier’s right had dark hair carefully tied at the base of his neck. A deep crescent scar decorated the right side of his face. The scar looked as if it were once a horrific burn. It did not hide his becoming features, though, if Jaskier were permitted the confession.

The man who stood closest to this first was a bit older, having lost some of his hair - though perhaps prematurely, Jaskier could wager - and he too was scarred on his right side. His forehead carrying deep scratches that were almost feral looking. Jaskier was just clever enough to piece together that these men were perhaps the other wards of Lord Kaer Morhen. The House of Wolves was known for its manly wards that had fought valiantly in the war against Nilfgaard.

The war had been nothing short of horrendous. Jaskier had heard of the horrors that had transpired on the front lines. He had spent the beginning of the war studying in Oxenfurt. It was not often that Jaskier could experience that rushing thrill of _regret_ , but when faced with the thought that his promised had been off fighting against the Nilfgaardian frontlines whilst Jaskier studied _literature_ , the cellist had considered that perhaps in another world he had taken up a sword against the invaders on the front line beside him. But such thoughts were fleeting in the grand scheme of things, for Jaskier chose not to live in the past and merely to embrace the present - dwelling in the past created nothing but torture. Currently, the present was the three Wolf Wards standing before him.

Oh, and the _third_ Wolf Ward of Kaer Morhen. The third in their trio was _stunning_. His hair was silvered, which might have hinted at an older age, but Jaskier kept in mind that the human body was a strange phenomenon indeed, for the man’s face had not looked much older than one of Jaskier’s last paramours. His eye was kissed by a sliver of a scar, painting the left side of his face with the war he survived. While Jaskier had not given much attention to the eyes of the other two, he could not help but to notice that this one’s eyes were like sunflowers.

Countess Vengerberg released his arm, grasping her skirt for a shallow curtsey. “Wolves,” she addressed with some familiarity, “might I introduce the Viscount de Lettenhove, Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

The three turned from their conversation, only breaking at the sound of Countess Vengerberg’s voice and not her approach. Jaskier thought that a breach of the norm, but perhaps that was how personable she was with the ward wolves. It was the balding one to react first, eyes lecherously trailing over Jaskier’s form before his smile stretched like a second scar.

“Isn't he a pretty thing?” He scoffed a laugh. Jaskier would have sworn had he not been in the presence of a lady of such high standing. If this was to be Lord Rivia, Jaskier would duel him for the right to his own hand, mother’s wishes be damned.

“Lambert,” the first one reprimanded, “can’t embarrass him now.” He teased equally, his smile just as twisted as he took in the sight. If it was one blessing, it was that the balding one - who Jaskier now knew to be Lord Lambert of Brugge - was not his courter-to-be. The first man’s smile turned soft around its edges as he took Jaskier in. “He is certainly a rich find, though.”

Scoffing a laugh, Lord Brugge crossed his arms over his chest. “So you can say he’s a pretty face, but I can’t?” He shook his head, “ _Countess_ Yennefer here isn’t even caught up in the niceties, Eskel.”

Eskel - Lord Eskel de Loc Muinne - furrowed his brow. “She introduced him by full title, Lambert,” he sighed, “how much more _nice_ does one have to be?”

“Preferably introducing oneself might be a start,” Jaskier cut in sharply, both on edge for being spoken about as if he were not here, and on the sudden revelation that he knew the identity of the third man. If these two present were Lord Brugge and Loc Muinne, that left only the Lord of Rivia.

Lord Rivia huffed silently, but Jaskier was hardly able to address it with Lord Brugge’s surprise catching his attention so firmly. Lord Loc Muinne was equally shocked but recovered much quicker. Laughing, Lord Loc Muinne held firm to his side, wiping at his eye.

“Oh, I’m beginning to _like_ this one, Geralt.” Lord Loc Muinne grinned brightly. It was a warming sight and made his handsome face all the richer.

“Hmm,” Lord Rivia seemed to grunt again and turned to face Lord Loc Muinne, “then you can have him.” His straight face was a stark contrast to his expressive companions.

Jaskier’s mind screeched as it halted, fully engaging with Lord Rivia’s spoken words. “A rather good impression is pawning off the one you intend to court, yes,” he raised his chin in a similar fashion that Countess Vengerberg had, “ _especially_ when one hasn’t spoken a word to them.”

Lord Rivia finally faced Jaskier. His sunflower eyes were near smoldering, but Jaskier would not allow such a cold and callous gaze to alleviate the transgression. He had not even been properly acquainted with the man and he was already beginning to toss Jaskier among his brothers as if he were some painted night stalker! Granted, Jaskier had taken his fun and would never seek to judge said night stalkers, but to be so blatantly compared to one was mortifying for his poor mother’s name.

The Lord Rivia’s eyes took Jaskier in half the time of his brothers. “You know who I am. I know who you are.” He spoke bluntly. “There’s not much else to know, is there?”

Jaskier gawped, floundering for a moment in a rather unbecoming nature. “ _Not much to know_ ?!” He furrowed his brow, arms beginning to float like a conductor as his words poured out from him. “Perhaps, kind sir, you are the sort without personality, but the rest of us have _interests_ and _wants_. We are feverish with romantic notions and nourishing words.”

“Is that what you want?” Lord Rivia’s voice was quite rough, whether by natural design or current tone remained to be unseen by Jaskier. “ _Romantic notions_ and _nourishing words_?” It was a near sneer as he dragged the words that sounded as if they were foreign on his tongue.

“Certainly not from a _lobcock_ who has no understanding of their meaning,” Jaskier scoffed. “Please, do not suffer on my account. Those larger words seem to strain you, Lord Rivia.” He could admit to not feeling quite as riled as his last interaction with the accursed Valdo Marx. Jaskier spat at his very name, and yet quickly Lord Rivia was competing with his vile interactions. Perhaps not quite _vile_ , but definitely unpleasant.

Lord Rivia’s nostrils flared with his subtle indignation. Their companions were eerily silent, but Jaskier could give them no more focus as he attuned himself to this unwanted interaction. “Well,” he nearly _growled_ and while that might have been tantalizing with anyone else, it was rather thwarted coming from Lord Rivia, “your concern for my welfare is overwhelming, Lord Lettenhove. Perhaps if you were truly concerned, you might silence yourself so that your grating voice might no longer plague me.”

From beside him, Jaskier could hear Countess Vengerberg snort a laugh. He felt his body burn bright red. Jaskier knew the shade was unattractive on him, but so full was his rage that he could not help but be overcome. Before he could return the insult, Countess Vengerberg spoke again.

“Now, children,” she chided, “play nice at my party or you shan’t be invited again.” Her violet eyes pierced Lord Rivia, causing the seemingly stoic man to look away. It made something cruel burn in Jaskier’s chest. Whether it was smugness radiating from his core at Lord Rivia’s properly chided demeanor or wishful jealousy acidicly burning at his insides that Countess Vengerberg seemed to have no unpleasantries when interacting with Lord Rivia - well - Jaskier would not allow the thought to grow further in order that he might examine it.

It was Lord Loc Muinne who spoke first, breaking the silence that had begun to settle amongst them. “Lord Lettenhove,” he spoke carefully, “I’ve heard you studied at Oxenfurt, yes?”

Pleased that the conversation was turning into overly familiar territory, Jaskier allowed himself to return Lord Loc Muinne’s polite smile. “Yes, actually,” he could not help the pride that laced his voice. “I’ve studied the arts and taken to the cello.”

“Cello?” Lord Brugge smirked, “sort of big for someone so small.”

Jaskier was under no assumption that his frame did not seem large. But his fellow scholars, professors, and lovers knew the truth of what lay under frills. He had studied fencing for all his life and taken to hoisting around a rather large instrument for another quarter of it. His stamina was nearly unrivaled and he knew his musculature was well enough to support any of his activities - whether illicit or purely academic.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Jaskier grinned with a wink. “I do prefer playing larger instruments.”

Lord Loc Muinne snorted into his champagne flute at the double entendre. His gaze flickered to Jaskier’s briefly before shaking his head in what could only be poorly veiled amusement. Lord Brugge’s once sneer seemed to grow twice in size and sprout genuine engagement.

“Oh, now I see what Eskel was on about.” He chuckled deeply, dark as wine and just as rich.

Countess Vengerberg’s laugh was a flutter in his ear. “Don’t make all of Lord Kaer Morhen’s wolves fall in love with you on this first night, Lord Lettenhove.”

Jaskier shrugged. A rather faux pas but the only motion he found fitting at the moment. “What can I say, my dear lady? I am an original artwork to be coveted for lavish decoration.”

Smirking, Countess Vengerberg raised that sharp eyebrow once more. “You plan on being flashed about like a golden trinket, Lord Lettenhove?”

“Oh, of course,” Jaskier nodded, not giving any care that what was to be his future husband was metres away. “Though, if Lord Rivia’s conversational skills are what they seem to be at present, perhaps it will be I dragging him about as I socialize.”

Grunting, but not disagreeing - a rather almost intolerable action - Lord Rivia merely sipped at his own champagne and paid Jaskier no more heed than the initial acknowledgement.

“Not a very pretty wolf to strut about with though, is he?” Lord Brugge quipped. “Not that any of us are sights.” His sharp teeth were near feral, but Jaskier could see his amber eyes - for they were amber in color - lose their glisten in the slightest degree.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier waved his hand, “you’re rather handsome men with attractive figures. I’m sure once Redenia is done being intimidated by your presence, they will be begging you to grace their social circles.”

Lord Loc Muinne laughed, bittersweet sounding to Jaskier’s ears. “I can’t tell if you’re merely speaking flattery or you lie for a living,” he barbed, “but with an Oxenfurt education, I might be tempted to think both of you.”

“You’d have a safer wager that way,” Jaskier grinned, engaging earnestly in discussing his Oxenfurt education to Lord Loc Muinne whilst Lord Brugge inserted his own thoughts with a well placed joke that kept the conversation lighter in tone. Lord Rivia held his silence all the while, and Countess Vengerberg seemed to watch on in fascination at Jaskier’s ability to integrate himself with the usually introverted wolves - these were the Countess’ own words; not Jaskier’s.

Lord Rivia’s silence was unnerving. On one hand, Jaskier did not have to deal with his boorish conversations and assessments, and yet his attention seemed to be everywhere _but_ Jaskier, and that was somehow _equally_ frustrating. That was but par the course for Jaskier’s luck it seemed, at least in regards to his future courter.

“Oh, they must tell you of the one time I caught them in my dr-” Countess Vengerberg began to join along in the ribbing, though this time the tease was directed toward Lord Rivia.

“Yen,” he interrupted sharply. The decorum of Countess Vengerberg’s title forgotten, the flaring reminder of their intimacy burning something dangerous in Jaskier’s gut. Not for his own pride, he should think. He had taken more than his fair share of paramours. Jaskier would pass no judgement; however, despite his ill-relations with his father, Jaskier had tried to remain discreet for the sake of his mother. Not discreet enough to have evaded rumor, but discreet enough that such blatant frolicking about by his future courter could reflect poorly on the Lettenhove name, his _mother’s_ name.

“Geralt,” it was hardly a reprimand for the breach of decorum that Countess Yennefer spoke up for. More a teasing chide that was familiar to this small group. Jaskier felt near intrusive.

He cleared his throat gently, gesturing to his empty flute. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen and lady,” Jaskier chuckled, “flowing conversation most often leads to empty flutes, and empty flutes lead to parched throats.”

“Wouldn’t want to croak you, lark,” Lord Brugge chuckled, twisted grin almost softening the barb. Lord Brugge was - in a way that distortedly reflected what Countess Vengerberg sought in company - refreshingly crude and unexpectedly kind. Jaskier knew the sort all too well. The sort that hid their gentlemanly manners in rude remarks. Nothing less of an unruly sort, but something endearing beneath. Ironically, he admonishes his previous self that had put the youngest lord as the least preferable of the trio. At least he could hold an engaging conversation - even if it were aided heavily by Lord Loc Muinne and Countess Vengerberg.

Bowing his head, Jaskier smiled easily, “thank you for the company, Lords Loc Muinne and Brugge.”

Lord Brugge grimaced at the address, scoffing. “Last time someone called me Lord Brugge, I was being handed a medallion.” His grin turned into that familiar sneer he used for his quips. “I would hope that my future brother-in-law would allow me the simple privilege of using our given names.”

“I would ask no man to call me by my given name for I do not favor it,” Jaskier tilted his head as he spoke, “but if you would extend the honor of your forename to me, Lambert, I would ask that you in turn call me Jaskier.”

“Jaskier?” Lord Loc Muinne queried, his empty flute also forgotten at the new conversation. “That is a very distinctive name, isn’t it?” His smirk twinned Lambert’s own.

Another huff that was beginning to grow familiar. It made Jaskier nerves alight and he allowed his gaze to flicker towards Lord Rivia’s amused features. “A performing name,” he observed - not incorrectly - and his lips took on a miniscule version of the grin that had taken Lambert and Lord Loc Muinne’s own.

“It means ‘Buttercup’ in my mother’s first tongue,” Jaskier continued, although he could admit to being interested in how well Lord Rivia knew his profession.

Lord Rivia gave a barely subdued snort of laughter. His eyes gleamed in a peculiar way that Jaskier could admit to not understanding. “Like a weed?”

Affronted, Jaskier huffed. “A _wildflower_ ,” he corrected, “and at least wildflowers have their merits. I cannot say the same is true for every man I have met.” He spoke sharply. The words seemed to lash just as he had wished, for Lord Rivia fixed his jaw with a clench and looked away with but another hum. Jaskier felt his cheeks heat and therefore sought other avenues of conversation. He turned to Lord Loc Muinne once more, “At Oxenfurt, we were urged to take a stage name. I’ve found that I feel more at home with a cello in hand.”

“But ever so much at home laughing in rich company,” Countess Vengerberg quipped lightly. She grasped the crook of Jaskier’s elbow once more. “Trying to live up to the expectations of bards of old, Lord Lettenhove?”

Jaskier chuckled lightly, patting her hand lightly. He could see that Lord Rivia seemed to tense at the action. Perhaps there were deeper feelings in their affair than what Countess Vengerberg had initially led him to believe. “Don’t be a stranger, my lady. Jaskier will do,” he professed before releasing her hand, “and I find myself wishing to be among a new era of bard rather than holding on to archaic notions.”

Countess Vengerberg raised an eyebrow once more, another quickly familiar gesture among this company. “Do you have many thoughts on archaic notions, Jaskier?” Her bite was no doubt equal to whatever this terrifying woman’s bark would be, but it seemed rather tit for tat as opposed to a true opposition to his previously promiscuous lifestyle.

“Many, Countess Vengerberg,” he promised with a bow of his head, “but I really must be getting that drink now. Hopefully, you’ll save me a dance, my lady.”

“Of course, Jaskier,” Countess Vengerberg smirked, “Geralt has two left feet and no sense for dancing. It will befall to us to keep you entertained, won’t it?”

Lord Rivia seemed to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Was he embarrassed at his lack of dancing ability? Surely not? What with his high standing and handsome features, why had he a need for self-consciousness? Ladies and men at court did more than dance. But then again, Jaskier had witnessed first hand his ability to make conversation. Lord Rivia was rather lacking all around in key societal skills. A rather unattractive prospect for most suitors, but Jaskier’s father had already _kindly_ reminded him that beggars could not be choosers.

Perhaps it was pity at Lord Rivia’s discomfort that took his heart but Jaskier turned his attention to Lord Rivia fully for a moment. “If a man is surrounded by friends who treasure him enough to keep a courter entertained then he can count those heads among his blessings, yes?” He bowed deeply before the present company. “Lambert, Lord Loc Muinne-”

“Eskel,” he corrected with a click of his tongue. “Don’t give Lambert the pleasure and deprive me of it.”

Flushing at the earnesty in Eskel’s words, Jaskier felt his cheeks ache with heat and the strength of his smile. “Well then, Lambert, Eskel,” he bowed his head slightly, not daring to repeat the overly polite bow of before. Jaskier spared Lord Rivia a glance before looking to Countess Vengerberg. “Countess Vengerberg, Lord Rivia,” he bid them ado quickly, not daring to be accosted into more improper decorum or astute observations and boar-headed conversations.

With Jaskier’s quick retreat, he graced his way through the heavy crowd. He really _had_ begun to feel parched. Lord Rivia had not even _offered_ to grab him a new flute! An inattentive suitor, to be certain. Jaskier sighed. It really would fall to his shoulders to be the societal one for the two of them. If it were in Jaskier’s home, at least he had a homeland advantage to the tons and gossip. If they were to vacate and live in Lord Rivia’s homeland, then Jaskier would have to learn everything anew.

He had never minded new environments. Jaskier considered himself to be something that flourished in new lands. _A weed indeed_ , Jaskier could not help but cruelly think. Perhaps Lord Rivia had not been malicious, for it seemed he was more careless than anything in his interactions. It did not make the blows to what Jaskier could admit was his ego any less painful.

Jaskier paused in his steps. Well. He hadn’t been very kind either, had he? A silver tongue was sharp as a sword, one of his professors had told him. Shaking himself of the feeling, Jaskier strode toward one of the waitstaff.

“Julian!” Called a bright-eyed woman with deep ebony skin that glistened beneath the candlelight whom Jaskier had recognized as one of the girls he had grown up with in Redenia before his days at Oxenfurt. She was as grown as he was now, with her green gown displaying her status. Rather rich silk ribbons adorned her waist in a splendid display of wealth. She hissed for him to join her small company of young ladies.

Obediently, Jaskier followed the summons to the cheery faced ladies of the Redenian court. He bowed respectfully, but unfortunately could not recall her given name and whether she had previously granted him permission to use it as it had been many years since he had last seen her. He would assume, since the lady had called him Julian, he was permitted the familiarity but one could never be too careful when brushing shoulders with potential.

“Ladies,” he greeted them as a whole, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?” Gifting them a beatific smile and taking careful account of all of them. To the first girl’s right, a generously gifted girl with bright auburn hair giggled at Jaskier’s attention. The next two girls were eerily similar to one another - most likely born mere minutes apart.

“Julian,” the first spoke in a hushed voice, “we’ve just seen you come back from Lord Rivia’s side,” she gushed, “what was he like?”

“Yes,” the red-head spoke up much louder than her companion, “is he just as vicious as they say? Sneering off all conversation?”

Jaskier furrowed his brow, blinking, before speaking hesitantly, “Well, not quite-”

The taller of the twins spoke next, cutting Jaskier from his thoughts. “He’s rather fearsome looking, isn’t he?”

“Does the Butcher of Blaviken really live up to his name?” The smaller of the twins gasped. She was scandalized as much as the rest of the lot of them, but it seemed their paperbacks had decorated their notions on Lord Rivia’s war past more than what their fathers might have shared in gossip.

Jaskier was all too aware of the title of Butcher that had attached itself to Lord Rivia along with his honorable medal. Since no one that discussed it had actually _been there_ , no one had completely decided on whether his actions were necessary to end the war, or unfounded and cruel. Jaskier would dare not ask, especially if without that title address Lord Rivia seemed to loathe the engagement.

“Now, ladies,” Jaskier spoke softly, “one conversation does a judgement not make.” Although Jaskier held no reservations about his opinion on Lord Rivia, he could hear his mother chastise his thoughts of voicing anything against his suitor.

“Where is your sense of conversation, Julian?” The first teased with a grin filled with perfectly shining teeth. “Surely, you have your opinions! Did Oxenfurt train the gossip out of you?”

Jaskier forced a smile as wide as hers, to appear to be matching the glee in the conversation. “Of course not, my lady. Merely that using gossip and creating gossip are separate entities.”

The generously gifted and equally generous at bequeathing her company of the sight red-head scoffed a rather unbecoming laugh. She made her gaze upon Lord Rivia and his company obvious, and those surrounding her tried to hush her tone. “He looks like he’d be a _monster_ if you know what I’m speaking about.”

“Virginia!” The first reprimanded, cheeks flushed deeply against her dark cheeks. “I am so sorry, Julian,” she spoke soft and earnestly. “Virginia has never known how to hold her tongue, even when in the presence of Lord Rivia’s courter.”

Virginia had the decency to pretend to look abashed while the first’s gaze was upon her, but presented a lewd disposition when she was no longer being scrutinized. Jaskier would not blame her for her slight for he had thought similar things upon first glance. He hadn’t voiced them, of course, and they were immediately diluted by Lord Rivia _opening his mouth_ , but he was admittedly very attractive.

“It’s alright, Gwenievre.” Jaskier had remembered her name, taking the chance to use it. A gamble, but he was looking for an exit. He really did need to check in with his mother, as he was certain she was to check in with him. His father was nowhere to be seen, and Jaskier would easily confess to not caring about his whereabouts. He was certain the sentiment was mutual. “I really must be going on though, ladies. I promised my mother a dance.”

They cooed, the tallest twin speaking sparklingly about Jaskier’s dedication to his mother’s care. Thinking back on his suitor with a grimace, he could not help but think how accurate the statement was. The things he did for his mother were what any well to do man should do, really. Jaskier had always thought that, especially when it had been his mother to support him in Oxenfurt and not his father. Though, it had been his mother who initially introduced him to the musical arts, so perhaps it had been her plan all along. The crafty woman.

Grasping a flute from a passing waitstaff, Jaskier could not help the speed at which he consumed the sparkling drink. If he was to be accosted by every social corner in order that they might inquire about the Butcher, well, he would need all the aid he could in easing his smile.


	2. Chapter Two: The Horse

If Jaskier thought meeting Lord Rivia at Countess Vengerberg’s party had been a barely tolerable experience, he had no word in the poetic language to describe how _terrible_ the dinner had been with Lords Rivia and Kaer Morhen and Jaskier’s family. Jaskier was near mortified to discover he _preferred_ Lord Rivia’s condescending remarks to the stilted conversation upheld between the Baron and his father. Jaskier had, on more than one occasion, made to instill himself in the conversation in order that the affair might seem more lively, but a rather pointed look from the Earl had silenced him.

Jaskier was neither one to remain silent nor to keep in mind the judgement of others - not too greatly, by all means. It seemed his father was the exception. While Jaskier was usually a boisterous, care-free lover of the arts, at the command of his father he was an obedient son. A quiet suitor. Perhaps that was more for his mother, who pleaded with him just before the dinner to hold his tongue. A silver sword for a tongue, Jaskier was once more reminded of the sentiment.

Well, whatever odd aura had captured them during that dinner had tainted their initial assessment of one another. Or at least, on Jaskier’s side of the relationship it had. He was projecting - as most musicians do - but Jaskier was of the thought that perhaps Lord Rivia’s silence during their stroll mirrored that of his own during dinner. A ward under the watchful eye of the Baron aiming for obedience in order that the courting might properly begin and their duties be fulfilled.

Melitele, the _courting_ . Jaskier cursed under the smoldering heat of the uncovered sun. He had not minded a stroll during the Spring, in fact, he found those to be quite preferable; where the breeze was cool enough to kiss away the searing heat and the smell of freshly bloomed flowers was a pleasant odor, but a _summer_ stroll was unbearable. It made him wish he were not in present company in order that he might strip himself of his coat and spare himself of dying. But that was hardly proper, given that the intent was courtship and the companionship was not merely that of familiarity.

The stroll was terribly quiet, just as quiet as dinner had been, Jaskier pondered upon further. Lord Rivia had arrived with the Baron to meet Jaskier at his father’s home. His mother had arranged the first courting affair just the night prior at dinner. It was a tradition of the season, Jaskier supposed. Though, typically, these strolls were filled with _talking_. Whether it was Jaskier’s first instinct that the Baron’s presence behind them as their chaperone affected him or it was Lord Rivia’s initial misgivings about their first impression on one another, the Lord Rivia had been reticent.

It made the act of courting rather difficult, but Jaskier surmised that they were already promised to one another and perhaps it was of Lord Rivia’s thought that they need not _truly_ court one another. Their courting period was merely a formality meant to ensure that neither party would rescind upon the deal. Drains the romanticism from the entire ordeal - not that there was romanticism to be had from the affair. _Romanticism_ and _nourishment_ , indeed, Jaskier let out a soft laugh.

Lord Rivia hummed beside him. Jaskier’s already flushed cheeks darkened at the realization his monologue had made itself known in the huff of laughter. Those sunflower eyes turned to Jaskier carefully as they strolled. “What.”

His baritone voice would have been rather nice had he chosen to use any infliction whatsoever. Jaskier fought the roll of his eyes. “I was just thinking about the merits of Spring strolling versus summer strolling.”

“...You were thinking of strolling?” There was the infliction, Lord Rivia’s words laced with confusion as their almost brisk pace slowed at the sudden appearance of a conversation.

“Well, yes,” Jaskier furrowed his brow, “what else would I be thinking of _while strolling_ ?” He spoke bitingly. His mother would have chided him for receiving Lord Rivia’s attempt at conversation so rudely, but Jaskier was rather of the notion that the Lord Rivia wanted to converse with him no more than Jaskier wanted to be strolling in the _summer_.

Lord Rivia hummed, turning away from Jaskier. The silent indication that he had no more to say shaping in the form of his resumed fast pace.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, matching Lord Rivia’s pace, as he readied himself. “Summer strolling is utterly romantic for those ladies of fine silks and parasols,” he spoke aloud, carrying on the conversation after its untimely demise. He was rather like that, his father had once said, revitalizing conversations after their expiration. What was the use in letting the poor topic die on account of Jaskier’s briskness and Lord Rivia’s introverted nature?

“But Spring strolling is filled with suit colors to match the season and a lovely breeze to fight the unbearable heat,” Jaskier continued, for he found that he could converse enough for a party of fifteen men and no less once given the opportunity.

“Your delicate skin can’t take the sun, Lord Lettenhove?” Lord Rivia quipped, lips taking a slight quirk that Jaskier found annoying and peculiar in equal measure.

Gawping for a moment, Jaskier shook his head. “Do you mean to tell me, Lord Rivia, that you _prefer_ the summer weather to the Spring?”

Lord Rivia nodded, a gentle accompanying grunt as his answer. Jaskier thought he would say no more until his rich voice rose from his throat. “Summer is the time of harvests and hunts. The earth is richer in the summer. Things heartier than Spring flowers taking root.”

“Oh, yes, I forget your propensity to belittle wildflowers,” Jaskier spoke, perhaps more haughtily than he had any right too, but he felt Lord Rivia’s words another slight at his behalf.

His courter fixed his jaw, teeth grinding against one another before he exhaled sharply. “You _would_ prefer Spring,” Lord Rivia eventually spat the barb.

Jaskier paused his steps, crossing his arms over his chest. “And what’s wrong with the Spring, Lord Rivia?”

“Nothing is wrong with Spring,” he paused his own steps, bulkier frame near shadowing over Jaskier.

“You implied as much,” Jaskier argued, cheeks burning with what he knew to be a red intensity. “What else am I meant to think when you call wildflowers _weeds_.”

Lord Rivia’s eyes flashed and something like a gentle growl emanated from his throat. “ _Buttercups are weeds_ ,” he huffed, “and so are you as far as I am concerned. This engagement of ours is a certainty and this pseudo-courting is only an unnecessary farce.”

Jaskier ground his teeth against one another, a habit his mother had broken him of as a _child_ but seemed to be recurring as a mimicry of Lord Rivia’s own habits. “Oh, trust me. I know better than to ask a _Butcher_ about flowers.”

That seemed the wrong thing to say. If Lord Rivia’s entire demeanor was monosyllabic and reticent before, now his countenance was a mausoleum. Deadly silent and eerie. Jaskier wondered, albeit idly, if this is what the men that Lord Rivia had killed heard prior to their deaths - _nothing_. While not overly familiar with shame, Jaskier knew it well enough to recognize as it covered his own features. His throat felt swollen around words that he could no longer utter.

Lord Rivia cast his gaze away and Jaskier felt nothing but _relief_ upon no longer being their sole focus. The man’s nostrils had flared, hands tensing into fists at his side, but he had said nothing. Said nothing against Jaskier’s transgression against him.

Inhaling a shaky breath, Jaskier spoke softly. He was no longer aware of the Baron’s distance from them nor the scorching sun above them. “I’m not a dainty flower,” he protested, “if you wish to strike me, do it.”

This drew Lord Rivia’s attention quickly. His golden eyes flashing with something before returning to a more stoic nature of which Jaskier was accustomed to on his face. “Do you expect me to be a violent husband?” His voice sounded gruff, but earnest. Perhaps, if Jaskier dared, it was something raw sounding. He had not known the emotion in his own household during his youth. Only at Oxenfurt did his depth of emotion grow larger until it was the size of a manor, but even in his studies and experiments he had never heard something quite like _that_ before. Nothing quite as striking as the Lord Rivia’s words.

“No,” Jaskier spoke honestly, body alight with fire coursing in his veins. “I can do naught but imagine that you have seen enough violence for the lifetime of ten men.” And Jaskier found that he _meant that_. Despite how horrid a conversationalist he was, how unpleasant it had been to interact with him, Lord Rivia had not once struck out in anger. And while Jaskier was many things, one of those he knew to be an irritation to the Lord of Rivia and he could not solely blame Lord Rivia’s countenance in their interactions on his shoulders.

“Then no,” Lord Rivia seemed to have found his voice, buried deep in his throat for how low the words sounded to Jaskier’s ears, “I don’t care what you are. I won’t strike you.”

It was a plainly stated sentiment. Jaskier felt something thunder in his chest, the heavy stone of that initial fear breaking in half. On the first hand, it was infuriating to see that Lord Rivia did not care about this courtship in the slightest. To say he had no care of what Jaskier was to him. On the other hand, it was quite a gentlemanly sentiment and flattering, if Jaskier were being honest with himself.

Exhaling with an equal amount of fervor as he had first inhaled, Jaskier nodded slowly. “Then I shall aim to not commit further transgressions upon you either, for I care not what you are in turn.”

Lord Rivia’s countenance had morphed into something that Jaskier did not quite recognize. His eyes burned but his body eased itself of its tension. Lord Rivia awkwardly affixed his hat properly upon his head before turning as if to continue their stroll.

Jaskier chewed upon his lip for a moment before holding out his arm. Lord Rivia raised an appraising eyebrow at his elbow before scoffing. “No,” he said pointedly, refusing his arm and continuing. Giving a huff of his own, Jaskier removed his own hat to wipe at his brow. _Melitele_ , it was hot.

The remainder of the stroll was spent in silence, Jaskier humming occasionally and the two of them straying no closer to one another. He would not have gone as far as to call the interaction awkward, per say, but it was not much more pleasant than their initial meeting. Perhaps it was because they were both of the understanding that they were not romantically - or any of the other sort - interested in one another. But with that same understanding was now a quiet, simmering respect that they would share as gentlemen. If Jaskier had anything, he at least had that.

“What is that,” Lord of Rivia pulled Jaskier from his musings with another one of his inflectionless inquires.

“What?” Jaskier balked for a moment before remembering himself, “oh, the… the song?” He asked cautiously, words uncertain in face of Lord Rivia’s effort to converse.

Lord Rivia hummed, nodding once and silently beckoning Jaskier to continue. It was an initiation of conversation much like it had been the first time, but this attempt was laced with that oddly placed respect and that unknown simmering beneath Lord Rivia’s golden gaze; it was as much an olive branch as Jaskier had ever seen, and he would count himself a fool for not taking the opportunity to at least know the man that he would spend the rest of his life with. Even if it would never be a happy marriage like the one of ballads, Jaskier would strive to make it a _respectable_ one that his mother might be proud of.

Clearing his throat, Jaskier spoke gently. “It - _ah_ \- you wouldn’t have heard it before,” he confessed carefully, feeling a sense of duty to return a branch in turn with the entirety of it. “I am trying to compose my own works. I’m not _just_ a cellist, you know.” Jaskier teased lightly before reminding himself that Lord Rivia did _not_ know because he did not _want to_ . A peace treaty was not an engagement of migration. The Lord Rivia would respect his future spouse and have proper and polite conversations with his intended, but he had already blatantly confessed the lack of want to _know_ him. 

“Hmm,” the sound resonated from Lord Rivia’s throat. “A composer who likes the Spring,” a smile, small and sharp like a knife into Jaskier’s heart pierced from Lord Rivia’s features. “Would it be a safe wager on what themes you prefer?”

Forcing a chuckle, Jaskier shook his head. “A safe wager? For me to make, perhaps.” Jaskier held his chin aloft. His father often called his musical tastes tawdry. Mother said _unique_ . He wasn’t sure which moniker he preferred. “It would be foolish and wasteful _not_ to compose art about romantic figures and events, but I’ve often found that listening to the life around me is what makes the best story.”

Lord Rivia had not tripped in his steps but it was a near thing. He looked genuinely surprised for a moment before a huff of laughter escaped his lips. “You write about _gossip_ , Lord Lettenhove?”

“Well,” Jaskier could not contain the smile. “Everyone likes gossip, Lord Rivia. _Stories_. Just not everyone admits to liking it so freely.”

Another grunt, but this time Lord Rivia directed a softer smile away from Jaskier. A breeze kissed at Jaskier’s cheeks as he watched with nothing short of fascination as genuine amusement colored Lord Rivia’s words. “Well, no one can say that you are not well studied in the art of humanity, Lord Lettenhove.”

It was one of the highest compliments he had ever been paid.

“Lord Rivia,” Jaskier bowed his head politely, “I think that for our next outing we should do something of your choosing. Seeing as my mother had taken it upon herself to arrange our outing and submit the Baron to chaperoning.”

It was humorous, when fully considered. That the Countess de Lettenhove had roped _a bloody Baron_ into chaperoning. As if he were a common gentleman watching over _teenagers_. It seemed, though, that the Baron had been more than ready to do so. Perhaps he was protective of his ward. Jaskier could not say that he blamed him. The Baron was ensuring that Jaskir upheld his parent’s end of the bargain.

“My choosing?” Lord Rivia spoke in a seemingly careful manner. “Mhm.” Pensive, the Lord Rivia seemed to think heavily on some matters. “And why should you not have the choice? Does your mother know you so well to send you strolling in the summer?”

Huffing a laugh, Jaskier shook his head. “Well, I _was_ trying to be thoughtful, but if you would much rather that _I_ pick, Lord Rivia-”

His words were cut off with another huff of laughter. Jaskier was beginning to ponder on whether Lord Rivia had ever given a hearty laugh in his entire life. He could only smile in return as Lord Rivia shook his head.

“I’ll accept your _gracious_ offer,” Lord Rivia spoke in that low rumbling quake of his, “but I cannot promise you will enjoy it.”

Jaskier felt himself flush once more, swallowing heavily. “Well,” he beamed, “I am one for adventure.”


	3. Chapter Three: The Rival

“Adventure,” Jaskier huffed, nose scrunching from the utter _stench_ of the already sweating horses. “ _Adventure_ ,” he muttered once more under his breath as he settled himself into Pegasus’ saddle. The gelded steed was a subdued thing, rather perfect when Jaskier had begun his riding lessons. He had grown too fond of the thing to be rid of it after his training was over.

Make no mistake that despite _training_ for riding, Jaskier _abhorred_ it. Why ride a horse when one could ride a carriage? A carriage protected one from the glaring sun and while it did not take rough roads any smoother, there was a resplendency to be had with a carriage whether it was opened or not. Horses had not provided that to anyone Jaskier knew.

Save for the Lord Rivia, as was apparent. He looked quite natural and handsome atop his mare. Her name was Roach according to the rather proper introduction Lord Rivia had provided. Atop his mare, he seemed to have the confidence one might have wearing a familiar glove. It was a striking contrast from their earlier daliancy strolling just three days prior.

Lord Rivia smirked, eyeing as Jaskier’s exaggerated movements steadied himself atop Pegasus. Jaskier huffed in return, the warm breath blowing his fallen bangs away from obscuring his vision. “I see how it is,” he retorted, “I admit that I cannot stand _strolling_ in the summer so instead you arrange us to galavant atop sweating horses!” Whining, Jaskier righted his footings in Pegasus’ stirrups. “You should have waited until _after_ we were married if you wished to kill me in such a horrible fashion, Lord Rivia.”

How Lord Rivia could convey the rolling of his eyes without ever doing so was beyond Jaskier’s knowledge. The Lord exhaled sharply through his nose, something akin to amusement shining through his eyes like a sunrise. “The only reason you’ll catch your death out here is when that steed of yours upends you for holding his reins too tightly.” Lord Rivia spoke in another one of his grunts before silently commanding Roach to move closer to Pegasus. Pegasus seemed to quickly grow warm to the presence of the mare and Roach herself was much like her rider - calm and collected - so the close proximity affected neither of the horses.

Jaskier watched in a steady quiet as Lord Rivia affixed his hands properly on Pegasus’ reins, slacking his hold and shifting his position. The Lord Rivia grunted. “Whoever taught you to ride did not mean for you to do so efficiently,” he complained before moving away.

He would curse himself before he would admit it, but Jaskier had grown flush from Lord Rivia’s larger hands over his own. Lord Rivia’s sense of decorum lacking, Jaskier’s hands being _manhandled_ into the position that the older lord found desirable - it was a happenstance akin to those written in bodice rippers. Perhaps Pegasus was not disturbed by the close proximity, but Jaskier was. He rationalized the reaction as craving intimacy, for he had been without it for the months that he was back from Oxenfurt, and when his parents had informed him of this arranged courtship.

He was shaken from the notion when a petite throat cleared, drawing their attention to the third figure atop a horse that was to join their ride along. A beautifully freckled face stretched into a grin, framed by dark and curling hair, Lady Triss Marigold _sparkled_ beneath the morning sunlight. Her dark eyes fixated upon where Lord Rivia still resided, too close to be proper to Jaskier. Lord Rivia held his hands to Roach’s reins in the manner that he had corrected Jaskier to before guiding the mare forward along the path.

“Best move along before the sun grows too hot for you, Lord Lettenhove,” Lord Rivia quipped with a quirked brow. Jaskier huffed in response, pale skin already beginning to bloom red from the summer heat.

Triss - one of Jaskier’s closest compatriots - smiled prettily as she guided her own steed to stand near Pegasus as Lord Rivia moved further away. “And this is to whom you are engaged?”

“We’re not engaged yet,” Jaskier corrected, “the courting comes first, dear lady.”

A dark eyebrow raised in silent question. “And you still have not explained that to me,” she spoke softly, “how it is that you have been arranged for one another and yet still your mother has demanded that the formal courting happen first.”

Jaskier tightened his hands on Pegasus’ reins before remembering Lord Rivia’s silent instruction and slacking once more. He urged Pegasus onward, “I don’t know it all myself, to be quite honest, Triss.” Clicking his tongue, Pegasus trolloped and Triss’ own steed matched his pace. Lord Rivia had already kept pace ahead, guiding them until they were on what he deemed a _proper_ path. Jaskier hadn’t minded, for it gave him a moment with his trusted friend who had so kindly agreed to chaperone.

“For all intents and purposes, we should be planning our wedding,” Jaskier spoke in a hushed tone, “and yet here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed,” Triss rolled her eyes, allowing the expression to roll over her features.

The Lady Triss of Marigold had been a healer amidst the war against Nilfgaard. She was rather skilled in such things, and Jaskier had nothing but the utmost respect for her. Triss had found her way in the court of the Duke of Temeria whom she had accompanied to Oxenfurt and how she had made Jaskier’s acquaintance. From there, their friendship had formed. Jaskier could once again confess to not having been in the war but neither had Triss, mostly. But they had found other things in common, and the letters had kept coming and going as oft as they could.

Triss steadied her grip on her steed before bowing her head. “It appears we are at this path that Geralt has promised you.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously in that way that had immediately endeared Jaskier to her.

He blinked for a moment, turning to face her, “You know Lord Rivia?”

“Yes,” Lord Rivia answered for her, having pulled Roach to a stop and turned the mare to face them. “Lady Triss is considered by many to be the Angel of Sodden.”

Jaskier looked appraisingly at his friend. He had known that she had - on occasion - been to the front lines. Woman or no - no matter how archaic views on women toward the frontlines were - Triss was an _excellent_ healer. “So you are their Angel of Mercy,” he huffed, “and here I thought you would take kindly to your friend. But no, you have deprived me of the tales you could have regaled me with and now your true colors are revealed, my dear heart.”

Triss’ laughter was like that of a church bell, high and loud. It was a lovely sound and Jaskier could not help but to preen at having caused such a sound. Even the more somber Lord Rivia seemed to lighten beneath Triss’ sunbeam like smile. Though, who could not feel the sensation of Triss’ bubbling personality encroaching on their worries and strife when in her presence? Was it any wonder that she was the Angel of Sodden, blessing soldiers with life and happiness in equal measure on what was such a gruesome battlefield?

Pulling Jaskier away from his theatrics, Triss’ smile softened, “I shall leave you to it.” She pulled back on her steed, commanding the Andalusian to give a false sense of privacy between chaperone and quarters. Jaskier passed a charming smile which she returned before he fully faced Lord Rivia.

Jaskier clicked his tongue, commanding Pegasus forward with the reins until his steed was to Roach’s side. He could admit that the early start - however horrendous initially - had done wonders to how much cooler it made the ride. Pegasus had not yet begun to _truly_ sweat, but Jaskier would not let Lord Rivia know he thought any differently. They rode in silence, the path much nicer than what Jaskier had initially thought when they had first been led off the usual trollop area that all the fine lords and ladies that Jaskier knew used. It would be impossible for Lord Rivia to know a land so well that he had never lived in. Jaskier could only assume that the Lord Rivia had ridden out the day prior to scout a nice path for the ride.

That was a flattering thought, the thought that Lord Rivia had put forth _effort_ into this courting regardless of the necessity of it. Perhaps Jaskier had misjudged the effort that Lord Rivia would be willing to commit to, for already he had grudgingly made conversation and now he had put forethought into their ride. They were simple things, but Jaskier had considered himself a man of simple pleasures. Fine pleasures, but simple all the same.

Jaskier surmised that this is where their respect had put them on this battle map of a courtship. Not a need to know one another, but a growing respect enough to perhaps _want_ to. Jaskier _could_ admit that wanting was far greater a compliment than needing. Since Lord Rivia had already extended the entirety of the olive tree, Jaskier deemed it time that he return the gesture in full once more.

“Your horse,” he spoke as he gestured to the faithful Roach, “how long have you had her? Pegasus, my loyal steed, I’ve had since I was no more than ten years of age if you would believe it.” Jaskier’s words had always come easy, overflowing the conversation to the point of overwhelming for some. However, Jaskier was beginning to wonder if Lord Rivia truly minded or if perhaps he spoke enough for the both of them. Or perhaps that was traitorous, romantic sentiments reeking havoc upon his rational thought.

Another of Lord Rivia’s hearty grunts happened upon Jaskier’s ears before he spoke, “She has been my companion since the beginning of the war.”

“Oh,” Jaskier let out in a surprised breath before turning his eyes to the mare, “I should have known. A beautiful, sturdy thing such as that. A war hero, your fine Roach is.”

Roach whinnied in response, Lord Rivia smiling more genuinely at the sound as he affectionately looked at her. This is what had taken Jaskier’s attention, drawn him from talk of horses and thoughts of courtship. If Jaskier had once thought Lord Rivia stunning as he first met him, the thought was dwarfed by Lord Rivia’s genuine smile. It put Triss’ ethereal sunlit beauty to shame, that sweet but small smile reflected in Lord Rivia’s golden gaze.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, she says,” Lord Rivia turned to face Jaskier after having translated Roach’s speech.

Scoffing a surprised laugh, Jaskier shook his head, “Of course not.” He allowed himself to smile genuinely in turn, even if he had not been the object of Lord Rivia’s affections. Allowing himself the vulnerability in turn was a greater olive branch than any conversation or forethought. “I would hope to prove myself to her in actions rather than words.”

Lord Rivia seemed taken aback for a moment, humming in place of a more verbal response. He turned away from Jaskier, hand placed reassuringly at Roach’s neck before he spoke anything at all, “You are a composer. A musician. You are your words.”

Thinking over such an observation, Jaskier nodded, “Perhaps, but perhaps that is why I hope to strive with actions. For mine are not actions, but words, and if I can but prove myself in a domain that is not my own, nor of my comfort, then perhaps I can prove my efforts to be genuine.”

Silent but companionably so, they continued. Perhaps Lord Rivia was mulling over Jaskier’s words like wine, or perhaps his verbiage had overstayed its welcome in Lord Rivia’s company. Jaskier had not yet fully decided whether his capability of running monologue complimented or annoyed the Lord Rivia. Both, preferably, Jaskier thought with a silent laugh.

“So horse riding?” Jaskier began, “Is that the sort of thing you do in the free time allotted to you?”

Lord Rivia hummed, giving a curt nod. Roach was much more subdued than Pegasus, whom Jaskier huffed against the excited pull the horse gave. Lord Rivia sighed before reaching over, adjusting Jaskier’s hands once more. “Every horse has a personality. They have to be treated differently.” He informed Jaskier as he arranged the minstrel's hands.

Jaskier took a heady breath of air in, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. “I think you’ll find that people are much the same, Lord Rivia,” he spoke breathlessly, face warm from Lord Rivia’s unintentionally close proximity. Too close to be proper. If their chaperone had been anyone other than Triss, they would have immediately placed themselves between Jaskier and the Lord Rivia. As the circumstances were, Jaskier couldn’t say that he minded overly so.

Pausing, the Lord Rivia turned his face but a centimeter to face Jaskier but already this placed the Wolf Ward’s own face far too close to Jaskier’s. He could, admittedly, not use the phrase _too close for comfort_ since he was beginning to think of Lord Rivia’s attention as very comfortable. Jaskier’s lips tucked upward into a smile before he could fight it. He watched with unspoken awe as Lord Rivia’s frame tensed, nostrils flaring for a moment before he withdrew back to an upright position within his own space.

Pegasus called for his attention to which Jaskier dutifully provided. He cooed at the gelded darling, clicking his tongue as they continued forward. Jaskier swore out of the corner of his eye he saw another of those genuine smiles blessing Lord Rivia’s face, but when he turned to take in the scenery of it, the Lord had let it vanish into thin air. Jaskier would take them as they were granted and knew he could ask for no more.

It was rather… endearing, this closed nature of Lord of Rivia’s. Jaskier was beginning to understand that it was this very nature that clashed with his own that led to their heated beginnings, and that perhaps comments of weeds - no matter how unwelcome they may be - were not malicious in their intent. Jaskier had no doubt that Lord Rivia _could_ be malicious if he wished, but as of yet it had not seemed that the apparent Butcher was much a Butcher at all. Merely a war verteran looking for his place in a world that was not the same as he once left it. A man fulfilling his duty to the Baron who had taken him in and taking Jaskier’s hand in marriage for the sake of it.

It was, rather surprisingly, Lord Rivia who broke the silence next. “Triss speaks highly of you,” his voice wavered, as if speaking about Jaskier behind his back might offend him.

Jaskier chuckled a well-meaning laugh, “I most certainly have no idea where she got those notions from,” he teased lightly. Lord Rivia seemed receptive to the jest, for he gentled in turn. “It must be pleasing to know you have friends who are near while we are performing our courting duties.”

“Hmm,” he plucked his words from the air in front of him in a pensive manner. “Familiar faces always ease the passage of duty.” Lord Rivia whispered it like a confession before slowing Roach’s pace. “Triss spoke of her time in Oxenfurt with Duke Temeria. That’s when she met you.”

Laughing vibrantly, Jaskier commanded Pegasus meet Roach’s slow trot. “I _did_ study in Oxenfurt, or have I not made enough mention of it?” He barbed but the spear tip of his words was softened by his laughter. At least, he was certain of it. It felt softer as they tumbled from his mouth - more like petals falling than swords clashing.

“And did the Duke of Temeria ask you about your compositions?” Lord Rivia’s question was startling. For it was not a question, and more an accusation. Had Triss spoken to Lord Rivia about the Duke’s business in Temeria? The war was over, and certainly those things were no longer confidential. Jaskier furrowed his brow, opening his mouth to answer.

“Jaskier!” Triss called for his attention from behind them, her horse galloping to draw closer and bereft them of their semblance of privacy. “Jaskier, it’s the Troubadour of Cidaris.” Her features worried into a frown, almond eyes flickering with concern as she spoke. “He’s shouting for you in the square.”

Jaskier grit his teeth, tightening the reins of Pegasus and turning the steed in the direction from whence they had come. “My apologies, Lord Rivia,” he spoke as Pegasus turned, “but duty calls.”

“Troubadour?” Lord Rivia asked gruffly, alert and making way to follow closely beside Jaskier and Pegasus, with Triss not far ahead guiding them through the path and to the square.

“Lord Valdo Marx,” Jaskier responded bitingly, speeding Pegasus up to a gallop as they continued, “the pompous Troubadour believes himself to be the greatest musician to have ever been birthed from the flower of Oxenfurt.”

Lord Rivia’s brow furrowed but he did not slow his pace. “A musical rival?”

Jaskier scoffed a laugh, knuckles whitening around the leather in his palms. “Hardly, though he likes to think of it in that fashion.” The sun was blistering and this time Pegasus had begun to build up a sweat. What an awful interruption to an otherwise wonderful ride, Jaskier had idly thought when a quick breath allowed him a moment.

It wasn’t long before they encroached upon the square which Triss had been referring to. Already, Valdo Marx’s words had gathered a crowd to surround him. His eyes flitted like a hummingbird’s wings to Jaskier and his approaching entourage.

“Ah! If it isn’t the Viscount,” he grinned amicably, though Jaskier could see easily through his overly polite façade. “I was wondering when you would show up.” Valdo clapped his hands, stepping down from the gazebo that he had commandeered as a stage.

Tightening his hold on the reins and affixing his position in Pegasus’ stirrups, Jaskier raised a haughty eyebrow. “Whether you choose to believe it or not, Valdo, my comings and goings do not revolve around your dramatizations.”

Valdo raised an eyebrow in faux offense. “Oh, you wound me, Julian,” his lecherous smile stretched across his devilish face. “Besides, do you not wish the news I have to offer you?”

“What news do you have that could possibly interest me?” Jaskier huffed, raising his chin once more in that fashion reminiscent of Countess Vengerberg. The added height of his horse added to the effect, if Valdo’s momentary falter was anything to go by.

But Valdo was nothing if not an excellent actor. The falter was miniscule enough that his audience would never see it. Only someone equally trained - or far surpassing Valdo - in the arts could see it. He continued, “The Nightingale Orchestra are looking for a new cellist to count among their members.”

This startled Jaskier, so unexpected was the announcement. The Nightingale Orchestra was one of the most renowned orchestras of the civilized world. Only the finest of musicians could be counted among their ranks. While Jaskier had no desire to be weighted down by obligations to an orchestra - already he was tying the knot as it were - to be able to play for even a season of his life with them would bring about enough popularity to start conducting his own compositions.

“And you are looking at him,” came the remark in typical Valdo fashion. “Of course, they are not aware of it yet. They will be soon.”

Giving off a polite laugh matched with a tight smile, Jaskier raised his brow. “And how do you know that it shan’t be some other musician with actual _talent_ to place amongst them?”

Valdo scoffed, “I certainly hope you don’t mean yourself, Julian,” his chest shook with his laughter. “You would only be embarrassing your highly sought after family title.”

From beside Jaskier, Lord Rivia made a noise that Jaskier could not recognize outright as either a grunt or something akin to a laugh. The disruptive noise drew the attention of Valdo and his crowd. Valdo’s smile turned sultry at the vision before him, and Jaskier was merely a man and could not help the indignation that filled him upon that lustful gaze heedlessly drinking in the sight of Lord Rivia.

“Oh?” Valdo purred, stepping closer but mindful of the unsettled mare that Lord Rivia rested on. “And do you think differently, sir…?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Lord Rivia introduced himself briskly. His features’ gaze hinted as to none of his thoughts. Likewise, even Roach seemed to be silent despite Valdo’s wretched form encroaching upon her space so that the troubadour might leer better at her rider.

Valdo’s eyes lit with a dangerous sort of fire, the fire that lit torches of villandry in works of art such as that of the notorious Shelley. “Oh, you must be _the_ Lord Geralt of Rivia!” He spoke loudly, “I pity that our dear Julian’s was the best dowry that you could purchase.” Valdo clicked his tongue.

“My affairs are my own,” Lord Rivia ground out, eyes piercing in their gaze upon Valdo. “And I suggest that if you wish to best _Lord Lettenhove_ in auditioning for your orchestra, then you’d be better wasting your time among instruments then here.”

Jaskier turned in surprise at Lord Rivia’s words. While Jaskier would not call him a _passionate_ man, there had been something burning of equal intensity to that of Valdo’s own stare. Jaskier had not missed either the correction of his address, the underlying demand that Valdo respectfully address Jaskier, either. It was flattering and horribly attractive of Lord Rivia, really. While he had done nothing to insinuate that Jaskier was his choice - for they both knew the truth and what good would it do? - his promised still rose to his defense.

For a moment, while Jaskier had the moment in Valdo’s stunned silence, he was reminded of that first stroll. Where he had asked Lord Rivia to strike him. Lord Rivia had not, had instead treated him kindly. Not less of a man, but of a man being courted. Jaskier would proudly admit that it felt _wonderful_ and the paperbacks he had so admonished in the beginning of this courtship would never be able to properly describe the feeling of being _defended_ by an attractive man.

“Well,” Valdo chuckled with a false sense of good nature. “You are correct in that I must practice.” He turned to his crowd. “A master is never done practicing, truly.” Turning back to face Jaskier, Valdo winked. “I shall see you soon, I should think, _Lord Lettenhove_.”

Jaskier nodded briskly, inhaling sharply as he made no motion to verbally respond. He watched as Valdo turned on his heel swiftly and began to march out of the square, his crowd either following or dispersing. Once the troubadour was out of sight, Jaskier turned his gaze once more to Lord Rivia. He was surprised to see that the man was still tracking Valdo’s movements as if he could see him over the horizon.

Triss chuckled lightly, maneuvering her horse until she was placed in front of them. “That was almost disappointing.” She winked. “Not even a threat of a duel this time.”

“Does that happen often?” Lord Rivia’s brow was both furrowed in disappointment and yet raised in amusement. A complex look for a complex man, Jaskier thought quietly.

“More often than I would like,” Jaskier confessed, “but even still. Valdo might be an untalented chawbacon, but that does not mean that he will not put up a fight.” He sighed, shaking his head, “he was good enough to graduate Oxenfurt - though Melitele only knows why.”

Lord Rivia nodded, turning to face the direction in which Valdo had left. “Hmm,” he spoke, “then perhaps we should hold off our courting.”

Jaskier balked, looking to Lord Rivia with wide eyes. “ _What?!_ ” He gasped, Pegasus becoming unsettled as Jaskier’s voice rose. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

The furrow in Lord Rivia’s brow deepened as he faced Jaskier. “I _mean_ if you wish to practice so that you may best the Lord Marx, then I would permit you the time to do so.”

“ _Permit?!”_ Jaskier could barely contain his voice. “You would _permit_ me? As if you already own my time? I think _not_ ,” he huffed, face red and not pleasantly from the sun. His sweat had begun to build upon his back and now he could do nothing else but think of how it stuck his jacket to his shoulders. “I am not some _dainty_ _woman_ for you to defend and control-”

Triss made a noise of indignation, to which Jaskier could do nothing but grimace and apologize. “What I mean to say-” Jaskier turned back to face the Lord of Rivia, “I am not _owned_ by you, nor shall I ever be. I am a grown man and my time is my _own_ , Lord Rivia.”

Lord Rivia’s knuckles tightened, pale skin turning alabaster until he released his hold. The golden light that had once glistened beneath his eyes shuttered into a void of mustard-colored murk that Jaskier could do naught but despair at. “Of course, Lord Lettenhove,” he grunted, “I would not assume anything else.” He tugged at Roach’s reins, pulling her to the right and out of the square. “Have a nice afternoon, Lord Lettenhove. Triss.” He bid ado before trotting briskly away from Jaskier.

Jaskier was a proud man. A prideful man of foolish decisions. He knew that. Knew when shame should paint him and when his otherwise carefully chosen words would be tinted with regret. He turned to Triss, feeling the rock that had taken shape in his chest plummet to the bottom of his stomach at her pitying stare.

“That wasn’t kind,” she spoke gently, “you know that was not Geralt’s intention.”

“No,” Jaskier spoke shortly, for he was a proud man, and his ego was too bruised like a feral animal crowded into a corner. “For I don’t think that I know him at all.”

Triss narrowed her eyes, disappointment taking place of her pity. “That is awfully rich coming from you, _Dandelion_.” She spoke pointedly.

Shuttering, Jaskier grasped the reins in the way he had been taught when he was young. Frustration building within him when Pegasus had refused to go easily until he moved his hands in the way Lord Rivia had instructed. “Have a good afternoon, Triss,” he spoke, voice turning from bitter to brittle, “thank you for your time.”

Jaskier could hear her sigh from behind him as he turned his back to her. She was too kind, kinder than he deserved at the moment. He knew he had spoken an ill-mannered way toward Lord Rivia, but the fact of the matter was he _hadn’t_ known Lord Rivia. Not as intimately as the people surrounding him seemed to. And the Lord Rivia’s intentions might have been good, but _damn_ if he didn’t use a jagged knife for precision cuts.

He could have possibly soiled this future engagement. It would depend entirely on Lord Rivia, and Jaskier would honor his decision - no matter his mother’s disappointment. In the very least, Jaskier would likely be granted the time to practice for the orchestra whether Lord Rivia broke off the courtship or chose to prematurely end the courtship and move on to the marriage as soon as possible to be done with it.

Although he had not believed he would ever think of such a sentiment in regards to Lord Rivia, Jaskier hoped Lord Rivia would not break off the courtship. He had rather enjoyed everything up until the ever horrid Lord Valdo Marx had inserted himself into the otherwise sunny day.


	4. Chapter Four: The Deal

Lord Rivia had not broken off neither the courtship nor the engagement. However, there remained only a silence between them; the most cordial of letters socially expected of them passed to one another by their houses. Jaskier had found himself unexpectedly missing Lord Rivia’s company, for the man had been brutally honest and endearingly earnest despite his reticent nature, that seemed to directly oppose Jaskier’s own inherent loudness.

Instead, in the week that followed, Jaskier _had_ kept practicing as Lord Rivia’s ill-fitted words had meant him to all along. Perfecting Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor had taken up most of his time as his own composition was still incomplete and looked as if it would remain so. He could not find the perfect instrument for the duetto with the cello to fit the overall structure of the piece as of yet, and had instead lost himself in the symphony of the cello solo.

Jaskier was relieved when Lord Rivia had written a polite - albeit stilted from his own words - letter informing him that the Baron had requested they have another outing; another assurance that Jaskier would remain faithful to his parents’ promise, he was certain. Especially given that Jaskier was certain his mother insisted on the courting stage in the first place, and perhaps that had allotted doubt in the Baron’s mind that Jaskier would follow through with this marriage.

The picnic was all arranged, as was their chaperone. It seemed this event would see them in the company of Lord Brugge - Lambert, Jaskier corrected mentally. Although Jaskier was reluctant to sit out in the smoldering heat once more, he could admit to a certain level of desperation in wishing for any chance to remedy his previous engagement with Lord Rivia. Perhaps it was his penance in order that Lord Rivia might forgive his silvered sword of a tongue.

The summer sun, as expected, was awfully overbearing as the afternoon coated itself in the pinnacle of summer fashion. Jaskier had removed his hat and fanned himself with his hand in order that he might not overheat. He envied the ladies their fashion: their beautiful parasols and fans. Just three days prior he had gifted Triss a parasol of the loveliest shade of green - along with a request of forgiveness for the slip of tongue that had been his unintentional slight against her. Perhaps he was more like Lord Rivia than he had initially surmised.

That thought was surprising, but not unexpected. Not if Jaskier were to be honest with himself. Perhaps his mother had known him better than he had himself when arranging this match. She was always too clever for her own good, seeing through Jaskier and his faces after his return from Oxenfurt and perhaps she had wanted to save Jaskier the fate that his father would have otherwise submitted him to. He had not been the same man upon his return, certainly. He was unsure if anyone ever could be after such an adventurous expedition. But perhaps if he worried less about being the _same_ man and more about being a _good_ man, he might earn Lord Rivia’s forgiveness.

Lambert had elected to carry the basket of food for the duration of their walk. Not out of kindness, but in order that he might sneak out one of the sweets that Baron Kaer Morhen had instructed be taken with them. Jaskier could not help but be curious as to which of the men had baked the sweets. They had come to Redenia with little servants, footmen in the most and not a cook to be had between them. Certainly, one of the Wolf Wards had been trained in the ways of the kitchen? Had all of the men been trained under the Baron to know housework? There were rumors of their more humble upbringing, but how humble was considered humble to the Baron of Kaer Morhen?

Not, it appeared, humble enough to adhere to the proper form of courting. Instead of pacing behind them as was etiquette, Lambert strode betwixt the two of them, carrying the conversation with Jaskier. He could not say he minded completely, for he enjoyed conversing with Lambert, but he could admit to feeling rather self-conscious, especially when he was still hoping to earn Lord Rivia’s forgiveness.

“Say, did I ever tell you the story of how our dear ol’ Geralt found himself stuck in an apple tree when we were lads?” Lambert laughed, his smirk teasing as he threw his arm over Lord Rivia’s shoulders. Jaskier dared not correct Lambert that they had not known nor interacted long enough for any stories of the sort to have been passed between them.

Lord Rivia growled, turning a heavy glare upon his brother. “Lambert,” he warned, “remember that you are younger, and I am very capable of reminding you of it.” It was not an outright threat of violence; perhaps a hint that he too hid embarrassing stories to wield against Lambert.

Lambert guffawed, throwing his head back before slapping Lord Rivia on the back. “Aye, but I’m not the one _courting_ , am I?” He winked.

“Not yet,” Jaskier could barely hear Lord Rivia’s follow up, but Lambert paid it no heed and therefore Jaskier minded it none.

Jaskier was an only child and had been for all of his life. Watching how Lord Rivia interacted with Lambert - a man not of his blood but bonded just the same - was intriguing. It was much more open than their socializing had been at Countess Vengerberg’s party. It was more intimate one might argue - homely and comfortable, even.

“I don’t think I can envision Lord Rivia climbing an apple tree, let alone finding himself caught in one,” Jaskier chuckled amicably, peering with curiosity for Lambert to continue.

Lambert made a face, nose scrunching deep into his features and furrowing his brow before turning to face Lord Rivia and then Jaskier again. “ _Lord Rivia_?” Lambert nearly spat, “you mean to tell me you're still addressing him by that stupid title?”

Blinking in surprise, Jaskier answered simply. “Yes.” He allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts, “During the early stages of the courtship, it’s what’s to be done.” Jaskier put simply. “Until the moment in which I am given the express permission to address Lord Rivia without his title, I will continue to do so.”

The Wolf Wards looked to one another, but Jaskier could hardly see Lord Rivia’s face with how Lambert’s position obstructed his view. Lambert turned back to face Jaskier, playfully swatting at him with the arm that held the picnic basket. “You’re a funny thing,” he laughed loudly, “what makes you think he ain’t waiting for you to give him permission first?”

Jaskier could admit that the flush that graced the apples of his cheeks was not by means of the summer sun. “Oh,” he let out in a small breath, for he had not given that thought. Though Lambert’s words put much into perspective. Jaskier, as the blood son of Earl Lettenhove, was by all accounts technically of a higher social ranking than Lord Rivia. Perhaps it was not in Jaskier’s thinking to see himself above the man, and therefore the notion had not been the first, the second, or the twentieth thought to occur in his mind.

“If you were waiting for my permission, then I grant it, Lord Rivia,” Jaskier spoke gently, moving so that he may have caught Lord Rivia’s sunflower gaze with his own in order that he might convey his sincerity on the matter. “I would be pleased if you would grace a humble lord the honor of addressing me as Jaskier.”

A grunt, another one of Lord Rivia’s “mhm”s as he kept his gaze firmly to the path ahead. Perhaps Jaskier had not been forgiven for his slight as of yet, but that was of no matter. If Lord Rivia had not deemed it fit to call off the engagement, then that meant that Jaskier could quite possibly have the rest of their lives to begin making it up to him.

“But Geralt and his great combat against the apple tree,” Lambert called for Jaskier’s attention. “Now, the way Vesemir tells it-”

“You weren’t even _there_ -”

“Little Geralt wanted the sweetest of apples; everyone knows they grow highest on the tree.” Lambert’s grin turned feral at Lord Rivia’s attempt at interruption. “Little Geralt climbed and climbed until the bottom-most branches were barely streaks against the ground.”

Lord Rivia huffed disruptively, but still Lambert paid him no mind. “Apple trees are not that large,” he grunted.

Lambert squeezed Lord Rivia’s shoulders in what might be affection despite its otherwise aggressive impression. “And little Geralt was _the best_ at climbing _up_ apple trees; not at climbing _down_ , unfortunately.”

A small bubble of laughter rolled out of Jaskier in the midst of his surprise. “And how did you find your way down from the apple tree?” Jaskier raised a brow toward Lord Rivia, “surely, you did not wait all this time in the apple tree until you were grown enough.” He laughed lightly along with Lambert’s heartier chuckling, teasing gently in what he hoped was mutual, amicable companionship.

Lord Rivia rolled his eyes, but perhaps upon being directly asked he answered himself instead of allowing Lambert to continue in his exaggerating recount. “Vesemir came out looking for me. I…” he spoke softly, “I was afraid of what trouble I would be in, so I did not call out.”

“ _Hours_ ,” Lambert howled, “he spent _hours_ out there until the old wolf found him!” The younger of the Wolf Wards seemed particularly pleased with the tale. Jaskier wondered, if idly, how long Lambert had been waiting to speak of such embarrassing happenstances to Lord Rivia’s intended.

Despite how humorous the thought was, of Lord Rivia small upon a tree limb wanting only to fetch an apple, Jaskier could not help but to take note of the odd shimmer to Lord Rivia’s eyes. The silent hum that Jaskier was beginning to recognize as his own form of speech caught Jaskier’s words in his throat. In place of a small Lord Rivia was a frail thing, fearing repercussion from the man that was like his father.

“When I was a lad,” Jaskier spoke softly, “my father had gifted me a tunic. It was the finest thing I had ever worn - embroidered with buttercups along its stems at my mother’s insistence.” He could not help how his eyes flickered toward Lord Rivia as he reminisced their earlier discussions of wildflowers and weeds. “I had caught it’s seam whilst playing outside like my father had instructed me not too.”

Chuckling softly, though not out of true humor, Jaskier looked to the horizon ever changing as they continued along their path. “I was terrified what he would do when he found out. Instead, I hid beneath a tree on the east side of the Lettenhove grounds.”

It was, Jaskier found unsurprisingly, Lord Rivia to have spoken up first. “And what happened?” His voice ever in that low rumble of a tone spoke almost too gently, encroaching upon Jaskier’s thoughts. “When your father found out?”

“Ha,” Jaskier clapped himself away from his melancholy memory, chipping with a cheery smile. “Let’s just say it was nothing of the sort that should be repeated within such a reputable company.”

Lord Rivia grew quiet, looking away and growing almost sombre. A lead grew much like the weed of his namesake within his chest, choking him with Lord Rivia’s pity. He hated the pity near as much as he hated being without Lord Rivia’s company entirely.

“Reputable company!” Lambert gave a snort, “haven’t been called _reputable_ since well before Coën decided to launch pudding upon the Lady Emileé’s evening gown!”

Jaskier raised a curious eyebrow, gossip raising him from the turmoil that leadened his heart. He hadn’t a clue _why_ he had shared such a morose tale. It was awfully maudlin compared to his normally delightful spectacles. Perhaps it was sympathy toward Lord Rivia’s past plight. A ringing at the fear of disappointing one’s paternal figure - one Jaskier knew all too well. Though, he had never quite pleased his father. His sole compatriot had always been his mother. Luckily, Jaskier thought with small hope, Baron Kaer Morhen seemed more _genuinely_ invested with Lord Rivia’s well-being and future.

Digressing within his own headspace, Jaskier let out a small puff of laughter. “That sounds like it was a soirée to be remembered.”

The Lord Rivia let out one of his small, private laughs that Jaskier found himself quickly cherishing like precious gemstones. “Jaskier writes songs off of gossip,” he spoke with a raised, amused brow pointed toward Lambert. “Might as well tell him that one too.”

Jaskier found himself _preening_ at the address from Lord Rivia. Perhaps he was earning that forgiveness faster than he had originally intended. It was well worth it, whatever the case, as Lord Rivia turned to his brother and Lambert began to regal Jaskier with the tale of their fourth brother - Coën - and the lovely Lady Emileé of Talgar.

There was something equally as warm about Lord Rivia remembering Jaskier’s proclivity for gossip - as scandalous as it might be - just as much as the sentiment of his chosen name off of Lord Rivia’s tongue. It warmed Jaskier’s consumption of the tale of the youngest still of the wards. As Jaskier learned, Coën of Proviss was _not_ one of Baron Kaer Morhen’s wards initially. He had been taken in much later, in his late teens, and was considered to be a griffin amongst the wolves.

“And then,” Lambert nearly choked with his own self-amusement, “he stuttered through such an apology - she stood there all soaked over her tits-”

“ _Lambert_ ,” Lord Rivia hissed and Jaskier was surprised to find the Lord reprimanding Lambert for propriety. It seemed, however, that Lambert had not cared for whatever social convention Lord Rivia was suddenly conforming to.

Lambert scoffed at Lord Rivia before returning to his riveting tale, “an’ the whole cock and ball were gawping at him like he was a lunatic ravin’ about and _then_ ,” a feral sort of grin overtook Lambert’s features as he leaned from Lord Rivia’s frame closer to Jaskier, “ol’ Coën swallowed that tongue of his and said somethin’ _awful_.”

“Well, what did he say?” Jaskier encouraged enthusiastically, eager for the story. “It had to have been something truly worthy to the climax of this tale.”

Snickering between one another, Lord Rivia spoke in Lambert’s stead. “He said, ‘ _at least prospective suitors know your assets_.’”

Gasping more for dramatic effect than in genuine surprise - for Jaskier had certainly heard _worse_ things - he stopped in his walking. The other two easily followed suit. “Certainly, he didn’t? Whatever became of that relation?”

“We were banned from Talgar, of course,” Lambert nodded, motioning for them to continue as he resumed speaking. “Ol’ Vesemir was right cross at Coën for the longest. Gave him stable duty.”

Jaskier furrowed his brow, looking from Lord Rivia to Lambert, “I suppose it is only Lord Rivia who has the heart for horses then, is it?”

This drew a peculiar look from either of them, Lambert’s face much more expressive than that of his older brother. “What?” The infliction was much more precise, but the verbiage a mirror to Lord Rivia’s own.

“I mean,” Jaskier fumbled for but a moment, “Lord Rivia takes great pride in Roach - as he should for she is a noble mare,” he spoke with a subtle flair of his hands, dramatic and showing as was his wont of usual, “and with how he spoke of her I had assumed he had taken to care for her personally. If the stables were punishment for your youngest brother, then I can only assume that he does not share this pride in his horse like Lord Rivia does.”

There was a thoughtful silence, one in which Jaskier could do little to read either of their expressions. Lord Rivia’s eyes sparked in a way that Jaskier was suddenly reminded he had not seen in well over the course of a week and he had _ached_ for it. Lambert, who was less familiar, was even more difficult to read than Jaskier’s stoic betrothed and made for an intimidating face.

“No,” Lord Rivia finally spoke, “we all take pride in our horses.” His golden eyes were filled with something Jaskier doubted he would ever be able to place without the proper time to study Lord Rivia’s eyes.

“It’s ol’ Betsy none of us want to deal with,” Lambert intervened in whatever weighted gaze Lord Rivia bared upon Jaskier.

Lord Rivia gave a small exhale of a laugh before speaking. “That’s Vesemir’s horse.” He explained, offering the information to Jaskier kindly - as if their last interaction was not a lingering impression on Jaskier’s character. Hope replaced the weeds as wildflowers threatened to scratch at his throat with sentiment toward this silently beautiful man.

“She’s an old _hag_ is what she is,” Lambert chortled, swinging the picnic basket to ease the weight off his arm before maneuvering to steal another sweet from the supply. “Does nothing but snip and leer.”

“I’ve found that some things require much more than the perceived effort that one might think,” Jaskier spoke carefully, eyes catching on Lord Rivia’s before losing courage and turning away, “and that perhaps where one had seen not but a cantankerous horse, there was a loyal and sturdy creature, if only one were courageous enough to be deserving of it.”

Lambert’s brow furrowed, as if told a riddle he had not understood, while Lord Rivia had turned more pensive. His golden coated gaze kept to the dirt path, twinding until it was lost to an open field of small shade. This seemed to be the intended place of rest judging by the halting movements of Lambert and Lord Rivia.

“Perhaps,” Lord Rivia spoke, “the beast does not know the difference between the flowers and the weeds.”

Jaskier laughed gently, turning to face Lord Rivia fully, vision unadulterated by Lambert between them this time. “Perhaps the flower does not know the difference between beast and beauty,” he argued, “and it only sees a powerful force of nature - that which it cannot control and may only succumb to.”

Lord Rivia’s brow furrowed, Lambert forgotten between them even as he moved to the middle of the clearing to place a soft blanket that had been laid atop the basket. “You say that as if the beast wishes to destroy the flower.”

“No,” Jaskier shook his head, “I do not claim to know the thoughts of creatures, merely that some of them feed off the grass and weeds, and should a flower find themselves in their presence they might feel intimidated.”

“Hmm,” Lord Rivia hummed lowly, looking from Jaskier to Lambert in quick succession before returning his gaze to Jaskier fully. “Perhaps the beast does not wish to destroy the flower.”

Jaskier frowned, beginning to feel where his cheeks ached at the displeasure in Lord Rivia’s tone. “Perhaps the flower has finally begun to see the difference between that which wishes to slay it and that which wishes to graze within the same field in which it grows.”

The Lord Rivia took a firm step forward, placing himself into the spot where Lambert had once stood betwixt them. “ _Perhaps_ ,” he argued more firmly, brow fully furrowed and golden gaze deep within the wells of his sculpted face, “the beast does not know how to live in the field with the flowers without tromping over them.”

“Perhaps,” Lambert cut in, startling Jaskier to step away from the startling close distance that had come between himself and Lord Rivia, “you would like to eat?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he finished setting out the food, “bloody hot out here.”

Swallowing heavily, Jaskier watched as Lord Rivia set his jaw firmly. The man’s sharp exhale was just as telling as what a hum might have been, but Jasker was not yet confident in his understanding of the man to believe he had translated it correctly. Jaskier turned to Lambert with a stretching grin.

“Food sounds wonderful, Lambert,” flushed cheeks were waved at with his hand in order that he might cool himself. “This summer sun is _dreadful_ for my complexion.”

Lambert snorted a laugh, taking a seat and helping himself to the meal. “What? Don’t want to look like one of those coastal crawdads?”

Snorting unattractively, Jaskier moved forward to take a seat upon the blanket, Lord Rivia a few steps behind him in these actions. “Oh, heavens no.” He waved his hand before reaching for a small piece of bread that had been included with the sweets and spiced meats. “My porcelain skin is rather delicate, and the sun does naught but burn and make me peel as if I were some tropical fruit to be torn apart for my meat.”

A sneer, lecherous and telling reminded Jaskier of the double edge to his almost careless words. Jaskier’s blush could not be drawn apart from the natural flush bequeathed him by the summer day. Lambert cackled before throwing a spiced meat toward Lord Rivia and Jaskier in kind. “Eat up,” he commanded of them.

Graciously, Jaskier feasted in amicable conversation with Lambert. It was awkward toward the beginning of their walk, given that Jaskier should have - by all social conventions - been speaking to _Lord Rivia_ and not his promised’s brother. Now the companionship was friendly, the Lord Rivia chuckling at their jokes softly and integrating himself into conversation to correct Lambert or quip with Jaskier. Jaskier could almost forget that he had so spurned his future engaged at the end of their last meeting.

_Almost_ , he reminded himself cruelly. For Lord Rivia still placed space between them in the form of his brother. For Lord Rivia had still not extended to him the pleasure of referring to him by his given name. But Jaskier was no fool and had already promised himself he would spend the rest of their lives making it up to Lord Rivia if the man so wished it. Such sentiments would be foolish follies to the mind’s of mannered men, but Jaskier had always considered himself a helpless romantic prone to fantasy. Lord Rivia’s complexion and wit seemed only to spur Jaskier’s yearning for companionship from him.

“Jaskier,” Lambert drew out after shoveling a rather large strawberry into his mouth. Chewing on it loudly, he raised a brow toward Jaskier, “why that name? If it’s a fancy musician name, why use it in place of your given one?”

“Ah,” Jaskier clicked his tongue, reaching for one of the smaller pieces of spiced meat. It was tender in a way that the chefs of Lettenhove had never quite been able to reach. “I suppose I… _feel_ more like Jaskier than Julian, to be truthful, Lambert.” He flickered his gaze between the two of them, gauging for their reactions. “My father hadn’t wanted me to attend Oxenfurt, you see, but my sweet mother had been very encouraging.”

Flushing at the admittance that he knew was to come, Jaskier braced himself, “My mother called me Jaskier when I was a young boy and I suppose it stuck when I was asked for a performing name to be given for my studies,” he threw the piece of meat into his mouth, keeping himself occupied with the food before him as not to meet judgement.

Jaskier did not often consider himself self-conscious, but between Lambert’s rather forward demeanor and the apparent weight Jaskier placed upon Geralt’s opinion, he was not quite sure if he was ready to fight condescending words beneath an overly heated summer day. He picked at one of the strawberries that Lambert had not snatched for himself and taken in between his fingers, biting carefully just short of the green.

Lord Rivia made an odd noise, but Jaskier merely filed that beneath the responses he would no doubt have to sort through in order that he might fully understand the man. Jaskier swallowed thickly as he returned his gaze to both Lambert and Lord Rivia.

“Mum called you buttercup?” Lambert raised a brow, scoffing. “Guess that’s why Earl Lettenhove gifted you the fine tunic, yeah?” His words were more heavily accented once his stomach was filled with the sweet wine that they had brought with them. “Must have ‘em all over your cello then like those rich people are of wont to do.”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier laughed lightly, grasping his own glass and sipping at his wine. “My cello is a fine, reliable old thing. Nothing of the sort of _Lord Valdo Marx_ ,” Jaskier’s words spat without thought. He could only grimace after, wishing he had not spoiled the noon for them once remembering Lord Rivia’s last encounter with the worm of a man.

Lambert’s brow furrowed, his form slouching forward as he looked over Jaskier’s frame. “Marx? That’s the little shit Geralt was talking about from last week, yeah?” He grunted, shaking his head. It seemed Lord Rivia had abandoned curbing his tongue. “Way I see it, if the bastard had his teeth knocked out he wouldn’t be so prone to talking.”

Lord Rivia grunted in something akin to agreement but kept his gaze fixated to his own wine glass. Jaskier could otherwise not begin to express the emotions which flitted across the man’s face. Sunflower eyes turned to Jaskier after a moment’s silence. “How has your practice been going?” He asked cautiously, something that gravely reminded Jaskier of the olive branch he had once extended long ago. This was twice now that his promised had taken the first step toward kindling kinship. Jaskier was both flattered in kind and shamed that he had not done so himself - not so boldly.

“Wonderfully except,” Jaskier spoke before thinking his words over, “actually, I suppose I’ve found myself at a blockade of creativity.”

“Creating?” Lambert leant back on his elbows, jacket already somehow undone amidst their conversation. The man was practically _indecent,_ and however it came to be that _he_ was chaperoning Jaskier and Lord Rivia would forever remain a mystery to the former. “Thought you would be doing some sort of play off - like a battle.”

Jaskier nodded, studying his wine glass as the liquid swirled slowly with his movements. “Yes, and no,” he answered, never drawing his gaze away. “I was hoping to have debuted a duetto piece - my magnum opus as it were - but I as of yet am unable to find the perfect equal to the cello’s melody so instead I must face Valdo Marx in skill alone.”

Lambert laughed heartily, throwing his head back and allowing the sun to shine brightly upon all of his features. How both of the wolf wards could be of a complexion not much darker than Jaskier’s own and not turn to bright shades of red instilled envy in the man. “Geralt did mention your writing capabilities once or twice,” he shot his brother a wink before leaning toward Jaskier, “you should play something for us sometime. Ol’ Vesemir’s got a weakness for the pretty ones.”

“I should very much like to play my duetto for Baron Kaer Morhen as soon as it is completed,” Jaskier spoke eagerly, “until then, I should hope that perhaps your family would honor my audition with your presence and encouragement.”

“Don’t expect much encouragement,” Lord Rivia smirked, “wolves don’t sing like birds, lark.”

Jaskier’s heart traitorously fluttered at the address. He could remember Lambert using the term in their first meeting and dangerously hoped that perhaps it was a familial term of endearment. Even if he should only reach an amicable, respectful relationship with his husband to be, Jaskier would favor that most definitely over nothing at all.

“A reassuring presence then,” Jaskier remedied quickly, “for welcomed company always puts me at ease whilst performing.”

Something shifted behind Lord Rivia’s eyes, something that Lambert detected and visibly fidgeted from. “Are we _permitted_?” The emphasis Lord Rivia put on the world was unmistakable. Jaskier felt it wash over him in a cold flash like ice water, as if he had plunged into a winter river.

“Lord Rivia,” Jaskier began softly, “I could no sooner restrict your presence than I could restrict myself of a fine wine, and should you choose to _grant_ me the honor whilst I perform, I would consider myself indebted to you.”

A subtle softening of Lord Rivia’s stone features followed by a gentle hum took with it the last of Jaskier’s sanity. Truly, madly, and deeply he had considered himself yearning for his promised now and already he had silently vowed to bring upon this man his every want and happiness as he should ask it of Jaskier. Before he would ask of it.

“I would consider it my duty as your promised to attend,” Lord Rivia’s gruff voice and words plucked the growing flowers from Jaskier's chest momentarily until he continued, “but… am _pleased..._ at being invited to do so.”

He could not fight the floundering moment before a smile large enough to have slid off his features had taken the place of any sensible sort of reaction. Jaskier laughed lightly, feeling as if the sun’s impending rays could not breach the pleasant bubble he had found himself within. “Should you always care for it, you should always be invited.” He spoke earnestly.

“Good,” Lambert interrupted, once more bluntly reminding Jaskier of his presence. “I’ve heard those fancy shindigs got the best cake.”

Laughing good-naturedly, Jaskier beamed toward Lambert. The man’s genuine nature was equally as refreshing as Geralt’s own. “At Lady Brevare’s bash on the eve of her sixteenth, they once had a heavenly cake tiered with no less than _five_ layers,” Jaskier gushed enthusiastically, setting aside his near emptied wine glass. “I would expect no less of Countess Vengerberg, though I suspect you are much more knowledgeable on the fine Countess than I.”

“That’s more Geralt’s area,” the tease in his tone was clear, but the spark that ignited within Jaskier was no less poignant than it had been on that night so many nights ago. Lambert threw his arm over Lord Rivia’s shoulders again. “Old friends the two of them. Met before the war.” Lambert sent Jaskier a wink, “though, I suppose you don’t want to hear about Geralt’s friendliness, eh?”

Lord Rivia’s jaw set, purposefully throwing Lambert’s arm off of his stature. “ _Lambert_ ,” and this time the reprimand was thicker than honey yet sharp like vinegar, “if you are not going to fulfill your duty as _chaperone_ , then perhaps you will be better suited to afford us some _privacy_?” He gritted through his teeth, armed and glistening as he bared his muzzle toward his brother.

Lambert’s leer, while entertaining to Jaskier, seemed to tense Lord Rivia further. Jaskier cleared his throat, calling for either of their attention. “If you would give us a moment?” Jaskier asked carefully, dancing along the thin line between long-founded decorum and pleasing Lord Rivia.

Huffing with a sigh, Lambert stood. “ _Fine_ ,” he grunted before snatching the wine bottle and shaking it before the two of them. “But I’m taking this and ain’t either of you getting any more.” With another smile - more flattering to his features than the leer, really - Lambert waved them off and sauntered toward a shadow further away from them.

Jaskier cleared his throat once more before turning to meet Lord Rivia’s gaze. The silence between them was neither completely tense nor fully companionable. Rather, it was much like a charged atmosphere before a storm. Something burning in Lord Rivia’s golden gaze and setting Jaskier’s skin ablaze.

“Yen and I…” Lord Rivia furrowed his brow, plucking his words from the blanket beneath them seemingly with how he averted his gaze. “It never worked out. It never _would_ have worked out.” He grunted, raising his eyes to look upon Jaskier again. “I do not wish to have you insulted but in turn I do not hold you to promise.”

“Hold me to promise?” Jaskier blinked, shaking himself of the haze that had bled over Lord Rivia’s words and left Jaskier feeling quite afloat in trying to understand him.

Gritting his teeth once more, Lord Rivia forced the words from himself. “I know of your… reputation, Jaskier,” he spoke Jaskier’s name as if to soften the blow of a transgression that was to come, “and if you still wish to seek companionship outside of our arrangements, I only ask that you be discreet, as not to bring discredit onto Vesemir’s name.” Lord Rivia looked near _imploring_ as he whispered to Jaskier. “I owe my life to Vesemir, and I do not wish to sulley his name further than what my own reputation might cause.”

Gently, as if approaching a cornered animal - and the sentiment was not lost to Jaskier despite his distraction with this devastatingly beautiful man - Jaskier reached out carefully, grasping Lord Rivia’s hand in his own. “I would no sooner besmirch my own mother’s name than taint that of Baron Kaer Morhen, Lord Rivia,” he swore, keeping his gaze to Lord Rivia.

As if it were the answer he was looking for and yet not at all, Lord Rivia’s clouded features cleared somewhat but kept a peculiar and gauging eye on their connected hands. Flushing at his forwardness, Jaskier made to withdraw his hand before Lord Rivia grasped it within his own hold.

“Thank you,” Lord Rivia spoke tightly. It sounded as if his throat constricted around the words and Jaskier’s heart bloomed pleasantly at the effort on Lord Rivia’s part. “But _Jaskier_ ,” he said pointedly, eyes finally combing over Jaskier’s frame to meet his own gaze, “it would… if you would…” he swore under his breath, tearing away from Jaskier.

Listening, perhaps truly listening for the first time, Jaskier placed his hands within his lap and smiled shyly. “Would you… like that I call you Geralt?” If Jaskier had thought his name on Lord Rivia’s tongue was titillating, he was not prepared for how his heart raced upon pronouncing Lord Rivia’s given name.

Lord Rivia furrowed his brow but met Jaskier’s gaze once more, firm but ever so gentle. “If that would so please you,” he spoke gruffly.

Jaskier could feel the smile pull at his cheeks, burning his delicate skin with the force of it. “It would please me greatly, Geralt.” He spoke the name again, a sacred treasure that he would horde and display in equal measure.

In a less than delicate manner, Lord Rivia - _Geralt_ \- nodded before reaching for a piece of cheese that Lambert had left. He proffered the small wedge to Jaskier, large, calloused fingers a poetically beautiful comparison to the small, smooth brie.

And it was utterly _foolish_ then what Jaskier did next. Obviously, the gentleman that Geralt was merely offered the cheese - had already offered the privilege of his given name. Yet, despite the promise of chastity, even if outwardly, in order that the sanctity of their family names be preserved, Jaskier simply took the cheese from Geralt’s grip with his _own damning mouth._

Flustered at the impulsive decision, Jaskier drew away quickly with the cheese. He turned his burning complexion away from Geralt. Oh, such careful consideration shattered with Jaskier’s fumbling, wanting grip unable to hold such a precious thing.

Whatever repercussions Jaskier feared - either from his promised or their chaperone - never came. He turned to see Geralt’s own gaze averted until he cautiously plucked another cheese from what little of the food that remained and once more offered it to Jaskier.

His cheeks darkened in what must have been an unattractive manner. Already what might have been a pleasant pink was a disgustingly raw red from the summer sun. Now that Geralt was reciprocating Jaskier’s foolish notions, he considered himself far along in his infatuation with his promised.

Once more, slower and more deliberate, Jaskier had moved to take the soft cheese with his mouth. Gaze locked with Geralt’s own, Jaskier allowed his tongue to tease the cheese before taking it into his mouth, lips locking over the soft sides. Geralt’s eyes were molten gold within the realms of his sockets, burning Jaskier’s skin with its gaze as he slowly drew away, sucking the cheese wedge into his mouth. Jaskier found this one much harder to swallow with how dry his throat was quickly becoming under Geralt’s untempered gaze.

“You kids done yet?” Lambert’s voice caused Jaskier’s fast-pacing heart to screech to a halt in its proceedings. Gaping as if caught with his jacket undone - as if it were not _Lambert_ completely undone in the presence of his future brother-in-law - Jaskier chuckled easily. Such was the way of the arts Jaskier was taught, nimble fingers, sharp mind, and silvered tongue.

“I will not ever come to the understanding of how Geralt is able to survive under this unruly sun, and am pleased it is not just myself suffering under this ungodly heat,” he teased lightly, standing and brushing off his breeches of any possible grass that might have found itself a home upon their blanket. “There’s a wonderful little stand not too far from here that serves the most delicious cones made of ice and flavored with a colored syrup.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow, appraising. “Haven’t you had your fill?”

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier scoffed a laugh. “You’ve much missed the point, Lambert dear, for the cones are made of _ice_ which, firstly, are not all that much filling, and secondly, are meant to help one cool off.” He spoke with a flourish of his hands, smiling at Lambert’s seeming exasperation. Sparing a glance toward Geralt, Jaskier could spot that small smile. The one that he had not quite seen since their ride - the one Jaskier was not certain he _had_ even seen during their ride, but now he was certain of its existence and how splendid it looked painted up Geralt’s handsome features.

“Come on, then,” Lambert moved to pack the remainder of their things, “let’s get you an ice cone.” He scoffed, throwing Geralt a shake of his head, “You really got yourself one of high demands, haven’t you?”

“Hmm,” Geralt shrugged but Jaskier took no offence to it. He knew he could be of higher maintenance, and at the same time Jaskier was now becoming familiar with how teasing was a sign of familiarity within the Wolf Wards social skills. It was actually rather flattering, once Jaskier pondered on it longer.

Lambert had not stood between them this time, sluggishly following behind carrying the now dishearteningly emptied basket as Jaskier led them to the small stand that had become a welcome staple to the summer season in Redenia. Geralt had not offered an arm, and Jaskier doubted he would want one, but they remained steadily beside one another, chatting amicably. Or rather, Jaskier chatted to which Geralt hummed. A pleasant affair despite Lambert’s occasional bemoaning of the state of the heat.

“Is that what I sounded like?” Jaskier grinned, playfully rubbing his elbow against Geralt’s own in a way that was overly typical of his own tactile nature. “Despite the _abysmal_ heat, there really _is_ something of the summer that is rather lovely.”

“I thought you were of the Spring inclination,” Geralt smirked, brow raised sharply.

Scoffing, Jaskier tutted, “Of _course_ I am, my dear Geralt, but I am still capable of _appreciating_ the finer things of the Summer. Ice cones being one of them,” his cheeks ached from the stretch of his smile, but in Geralt’s presence with the man laughing lowly that was entirely dulect, he found himself quite meaning the sentiment.

“You know,” Lambert called with a puff of breath, forcing himself betwixt them once more as he included himself into the conversation. “I was just thinking about how Yennefer knows that brass player. What was his name?”

“Who the hell knows,” Geralt let out in a breath before abashedly remembering himself and apologizing gently to Jaskier.

Smiling assuringly, Jaskier continued, “Why do we care who the hell this brass player is that Countess Vengerberg knows?”

Geralt looked from Lambert to Jaskier before something alit behind his eyes. Sunflower gold furrowed in disbelief as he glared at Lambert, Geralt whispered, “He’s part of that orchestra, isn’t he?”

Lambert clicked his tongue, sending Geralt a wink. “And who said you weren’t the smart one?” He turned his head to Jaskier, swinging his arm over Jaskier’s shoulders as he had previously done to Geralt. “Part of them ‘Belladonnas’ or whatever. Anyway, ways I see it, you’re a fine lord who should use his husband-to-be’s connections and to hell with that Marlo Faux fellow.”

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier corrected instinctually before his eyes widened, “Wait, would you?” He turned to watch Geralt carefully, “That is, speak to the Countess Vengerberg for me? Perhaps her being at my audition might provide the clout I need.”

Geralt furrowed his brow, looking between Jaskier and Lambert carefully. “Do you not believe yourself of the talent to get in on your own merit?”

Frowning with a harsh scoff, Jaskier shook his head, “Of course I can outplay Valdo bloody Marx,” his arms created unseen arcs as he spoke fluently, “but one can _never_ have too much good publicity.” He informed Geralt with a tilt of his chin in much the same way he had already picked up from the Countess herself.

“Hmm,” Geralt turned away thoughtfully before returning his gaze to Jaskier. “How about a compromise?”

Jaskier could feel his demeanor brighten, chest peacocking out as he looked upon Geralt. “What sort of compromise did you have in mind, Geralt dear?”

Gold eyes flickered like a candle as Geralt smirked. It was a rather dangerous look, one that consumed the blooms in Jaskier’s chest with a hint of dread to its heated breath. “ _You_ convince Yennefer to brush elbows as it were with her friends. My connections; your merit.”

Lambert snorted a rather obnoxious laugh, looking between them both with a paramount of glee. “Oh, this is going to be a _lovely_ marriage, I can already tell.”

His _marriage_ , Jaskier was subtly reminded as he tossed over Geralt’s words. Licking at his lips, Jaskier plucked his words from the orchard of his education. “I have never been one to shirk the responsibility of making my own image, nor am I one to squander a possibility.” Grinning and tongue sticking out of his mouth in a boyish manner, Jaskier held out his hand. “You have yourself a deal, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt smiled softly, taking Jaskier’s hand in his own. Jaskier preened under the attention, the feel of Geralt’s broad palm caressing his own. “A deal it is then, Jaskier de Lettenhove.”


	5. Chapter Five: The Earl

The passing days bled into weeks. Jaskier’s time was filled with practicing his cello for his upcoming appointment with the Countess, ripping apart and rewriting his composition, and spending his spare afternoons with Geralt.

Jaskier could count himself blessed that Geralt's presence filled every other day during this slow passage of time. He had felt anxious and would surely have crawled out of his own skin had Geralt not taken to his company so splendidly. They had another wonderful horse riding session, uninterrupted by the likes of Lord Valdo Marx, that had been the rapture Jaskier had needed to save him from staring helplessly at his compositional piece. Geralt’s brother, Eskel, had made that particular afternoon quite eventful with what would only be brought about in whispers as something to do with a goat.

Fortune had favored Jaskier once more this evening with Baron Kaer Morhen’s insistence that they meet for dinner yet again. His father had been more reluctant, having considered his own duty fulfilled. But Jaskier’s mother yet still held some sway over the Earl as the Baron of Kaer Morhen and his sons had been invited to dine within the halls of Lettenhove once more.

The first dinner had been rather intense to be spoken about bluntly. Jaskier held hope that his companionship with Geralt might ease the passage of the affair. Perhaps he would be allowed further insight into the shared peculiarities that Geralt seemed to mimic from Baron Kaer Morhen. Though perhaps Geralt’s own personality was distinctly his own from the way the Wolves of Kaer Morhen spoke of the Baron and their years with him.

The Baron of Kaer Morhen was a respectable man. His hair was finely groomed and his suit jacket pristine. He was a striking figure and nearly breathtaking. In Jaskier’s humblest of opinions, were it to be another lifetime where he was not promised to Geralt nor infatuated by him, the Baron would most certainly make it onto that list that struck his fancy but would perhaps never return the sentiment. If any would consider Jaskier’s taste odd, he would merely compare the Baron’s appearance as to that of a fine wine - all the better with age.

Jaskier did not consider thoughts about the Baron’s handsome visage to be scandalous, but he did ponder on whether that was untoward to think such things of one’s future father-in-law. Perhaps this was true, but perhaps the heart of the matter was Jaskier found all the Wolves of Kaer Morhen to be exceedingly handsome even if there was no likeness to be found among them.

Such were the thoughts one preoccupied themselves with when sat next to their father who had not once greeted them this evening as they sat across from their promised and could see the Wolves of Kaer Morhen’s rugged and handsome features glistening beneath the Lettenhove chandelier. If Jaskier could have any say in the decorations of the family home, throwing out that horridly garish chandelier would have been his first self-assigned task. However, given how the orange glow that it always tinted light with seemed to illuminate Geralt’s form, Jaskier might be persuaded to keep the ghastly family heirloom.

To call it a family heirloom was considering his father’s feelings too much. Earl Lettenhove had purchased the chandelier not but three years ago and had proclaimed it as an heirloom to be passed along with the house. If Jaskier was familiar with his mother’s expressions, she shared his sentiments or lack thereof in regards to that atrocious hanging ornament.

But all thoughts of ornaments and heirlooms were pushed to the side as Eskel sought to break the long laid silence of the meal. “This is a very good soup, my lady,” he spoke carefully, addressing Countess Lettenhove. “Would it be presumptuous to ask of the recipe?”

“No, of course not,” Jaskier’s mother answered hurriedly, a polite smile on her dainty, painted face. “After all, we are to be family, are we not? I shall have my cook deliver it directly to yours so that you may enjoy it.”

“Actually,” Eskel’s eyes darted over Lambert’s form beside him and toward the Baron that sat at the opposite head of the table to Jaskier’s father. “We’ve not brought any cooks with us. It’s just us, my lady. I’d take the recipe myself if it would be all the same to you.”

Flushing, Jaskier’s mother fiddled about with the pearls wrung around her neck for but a moment. “Oh,” she let out in a breath, “I see.” She cleared her throat and held her head aloft. She too seemed to be fashioning herself after that dangerous Countess Vengerberg. “Then I shall have my cook deliver the recipe to _you_ before the evening’s end.” Countess Lettenhove smiled politely, bowing her head and taking her recovery with grace. “If it’s all the same to you, Lord de Lock Muinne.”

Jaskier would forever be grateful for his mother’s patience in the face of the Wolves’ quirkiness. He could not say the same was true for his father, who seemed to sneer at the insinuation that they had no help to do things that the Earl considered beneath their title. Eskel, however, ever so sweet, smiled gently toward Jaskier’s mother and paid the Earl no heed.

“Eskel, my lady.” The marring to his cheek was magnified beneath the candlelight when he smiled. “If we’re to be family, I have no qualms with you being familiar with me.”

When Jaskier was ten and two years, his father had taken him into the woods carrying a small rabbit. Growing attached to the snowball, Jaskier had rambled on about whatever it is that young boys not yet in their teens do. Once they had reached deep into the woods, Jaskier’s father had demanded he place the rabbit down. The rabbit, having also grown attached to Jaskier in turn, remained by his feet. It was a cold memory, one that Jaskier did not dwell on without purpose. The laugh his father gave at Eskel’s words was a sharp reminder of his laugh on that day. 

“Familiarity,” his father plucked an olive into his mouth before reaching for another piece of salted pork. “Breeds contempt.”

Turning to face Jaskier’s father with a peculiar glint to his eyes, Eskel nodded carefully. “And conversance nurtures rapport.” The corner of his lips tucked upward, hinting at a wry smile.

The Earl swallowed a grape awkwardly, face momentarily matching its shade as he struggled for words. At the sight of his father’s manners and decorum, Jaskier could not help but to think that it was Geralt who should be compensated from the toil of this arrangement the most. The Wolves were more than tolerable; they were a welcome company. By whatever chance it was that Jaskier’s mother had convinced the Baron to overlook his father’s icy demeanor for the match, Jaskier was grateful for it.

Baron Kaer Morhen set down his goblet gracefully, eyes hovering over the Earl for a spare moment before landing directly on Jaskier. “And how does your practice fare, Lord Lettenhove? Geralt tells me that there is a grand performance to be had in an audition for some orchestra.”

Jaskier, blinking slowly in response, was suddenly struck with the thought that his own father had asked that of him not once. The Baron looked on patiently, eyebrow raised in genuine curiosity albeit perhaps some lingering tension between his brow from the Earl’s untoward manner.

“I should hope it fares well,” Jaskier spoke with a kind smile in return, “My education afforded to me provides me with some advantage. Oxenfurt is the finest school for musicians.”

“I see.” The Baron shook his head, glancing toward Geralt. Jaskier had not the moment to see Geralt’s reaction to the gaze before the Baron was addressing him once more. “Geralt also tells me that this - Valdo was it? - is also a graduate of Oxenfurt.”

From the corner of his eye, Jaskier watched as his mother inhaled deeply and gulped at her goblet. The subject of Lord Valdo Marx was already a rather tense affair without the sudden rivalry for the position amongst the Nightingale Orchestra. His mother sent a muttering into her drink, perhaps a prayer for the arrangement or Jaskier’s own nerves.

“Just because the man is a graduate of Oxenfurt does not mean I can say he truly benefited from the education.” Jaskier spoke bluntly. On the small occasions that Geralt or his siblings had mentioned the Baron and how they spoke to him, it had appeared the man preferred straightforward conversation and Jaskier had no intent to dissuade the Baron any more than he once might have after the unfortunate week of silence between himself and Geralt.

“It does not reflect well to speak ill of one’s competitors,” his mother chided gently as if Jaskier were but a tween fashioning bruised pride. Perhaps his pride was bruised by the infernal Valdo Marx and his reputable friends that he made all the while Jaskier was busy further pursuing his finer education and companionship within Oxenfurt’s halls.

Lambert snatched another fruit, crunching into the sin and swallowing the mouthful before speaking. “It’s different when it’s the truth. Haven’t heard a chord from that Valdo fellow, but if Jaskier says he ain’t no good then I believe him.”

Countess Lettenhove blinked in surprise as much as Jaskier did at Lambert’s statement. Jaskier preened with the compliment as his mother’s cheeks flushed pink. “My apologies, Lord Brugge. I had not realized you held Jaskier’s opinion in such esteem.”

“And you don’t?” Geralt spoke for the first since the main course arrived. Golden eyes bore into the Countess, bright like a summer sun and enough to make a spring flower wither from the intensity.

“What I’m sure my wife means to say is that we would not want to appear to have a clear bias for our son.” He plucked greenery from his teeth, licking them clean once it was tossed with the remains on his plate. “We want the best man to win, obviously.”

Geralt let out something akin to a grunt, hand tightening subtly around the spoon held in his grip. Jaskier wondered if his father had caught the physical show of Geralt’s restraint or if only the man’s family had been privy to the action.

Scoffing, Lambert distracted from the broiling atmosphere. “If yer to call him Eskel, you can call me Lambert, my lady.” He bowed his head respectfully, showing the manners instilled in him by the Baron under that same man’s watchful eye.

“Of course,” Countess Lettenhove smiled waving off her formality with a dainty swish of her gloved hand. “I shouldn’t wish to show favoritism this early into the relationship.” She teased and the pool of Jaskier’s memory rippled with the jest. Something the Countess did not do often when shaping herself into the perfect wife for Earl de Lettenhove. It was a penny of a thought to wonder if most of the Countess’ chiding had been to spare Jaskier from his father's birching.

A penny that grew in currency as the Earl inhaled sharply toward his wife. He snapped his fingers harshly, beckoning one of the serving girls to his side. “Have the plates be taken away. We’re retiring to the drawing room.”

The serving girl bowed her head deeply, hurrying toward the table with a flock of young women scuttling behind her to gather the empty dishes. One of the serving girls whose dark eyes had caught Lambert’s gaze was met with a flirtatious smile. Her plump cheeks pushed upward as she allowed a giggle in return that the Earl immediately silenced with a glare. Swallowing carefully, the serving girl bowed her head in silent apology before falling in line toward the kitchen.

Scrapping his chair as he pushed the seat backwards to stand, the Earl cleared his throat in order to draw the attention of those present. At least perhaps Lambert’s attention that still seemed to linger along the marching line. “Gentlemen,” he spoke. “If you would follow me.”

It seemed the Baron’s sons were reluctant, taking to moving only after the Baron himself. Nodding his head, Baron Kaer Morhen smiled politely. The older gentleman’s face was not as heavily scarred as his wolf sons, but his face carried the weight of his age and experience. Yet somehow despite the roughness to his features the man seemed all the more kinder for the darkness of the world he had bore witness to. An antithesis to Jaskier’s own father, if he were to take poetic license with it.

Baron Kaer Morhen carried himself graciously, rounding the table to meet Jaskier’s father toward the dining hall’s exit. There was a moment of pause from the Baron, where the Earl moved forward and his wife began to follow behind him until she had taken notice of the Baron’s halted footsteps. She turned with a furrow placed in her brow until she corrected her forehead into a smooth line.

“Baron?” She called, her voice catching her husband and making the Earl turn to the spectacle as he glanced over his shoulder.

A rather stern look colored the Baron’s features, a silent chastization toward the Earl before silently proffering his arm toward the Countess and changing his countenance to something more gentle. “Should you like me to escort you, my lady?”

Once more flustered, the Countess looked to her husband for an answer. In response the Earl nodded silently with his assent, watching as the Countess placed her dainty hand atop the Baron’s large forearm. Jaskier was suddenly struck, watching his mother’s pink cheeks, that this is where he had learned this behaviour from, surely. He could recall some handsome gentlemen guests affording her the courtesy graciously and respecting her title during his childhood. Jaskier had most certainly inherited his mother’s ability to fluster at the kind actions afforded to them by the Baron of Kaer Morhen and his sons.

Eskel and Lambert moved next, talking amongst themselves quietly as they took behind the Baron and the Countess, who followed the Earl’s proud strides. This left Geralt and Jaskier taking up the rear of their small parade, marching the tail end toward the drawing room.

Much like his mentor had, Geralt wordlessly held his arm aloft in order that Jaskier might take it. Graciously, Jaskier did so but instead grasped the crook of Geralt’s elbow, allowing for the embrace to be one of a more intimate manner. He offered Geralt his gratitude in a smile and was met with the growingly-familiar tilt of that ruggedly handsome head.

The Earl began his well-practiced monologue seamlessly. “This manor was built by my grandfather, the then Earl Bolesław Friderich Pankratz, who bore my father, Alfred Mieczysław Pankratz, in these very halls. The line of the Pankratz has lived within these walls for generations.” He forced a chuckle, barely gracing a look behind him toward the party following him. “I should hope that in Julian and Lord Rivia’s marriage they should take up my lineage here. I have no other choice of heirs to bequeath my lands to.” His words were quick and sharp like a dagger as he stopped on his heel, spinning to face those trailing behind him.

Jaskier sighed, taking notice of the portrait his father had chosen to point out. Already in his head he could hear his father begin his speech, gesturing toward the fine painting. The portrait was done by a talented woman who Jaskier only knew as The Painter from his father’s reimaginings of the story, but whose signature that lay on the corner of the portrait read as Leokadia.

“This is the portrait my father had commissioned as a commemoration of my birth,” the Earl began. “I was born to my father and mother, the then Earl Alfred Mieczysław and Countess Andromaque Émilienne Pankratz, on a late spring evening.” He waxed on, turning to face the admittedly lovely portrait of two young parents and a small babe with plump cheeks held within the woman’s lap.

Jaskier could remember his grandmother only faintly, as one does an apparition from childhood or dream. She was not an unkind woman, but Jaskier could not recall a warm memory that spawned from her name either. He remembered her passing more than anything, and how seemingly unaffected his father was during her funeral. Jaskier’s grandfather was remembered even less so. It was not an ailment that was responsible for how little time Jaskier’s grandfather was in his life, but rather that the former Earl had sequestered himself into his study only to be seen during dinner.

Whatever the peculiarity of his heritage, Jaskier could not say that he felt emotionally engaged with his father’s retelling of the Pankratz lineage. From the first portrait, the Earl glided toward another portrait, this one of a young Earl Alfred de Lettenhove and his newly crowned bride. The words continued like a faint noise that Jaskier had heard all throughout his life among these halls. The Baron and the Countess stepped forward, politely following as Eskel and Lambert seemed to blatantly absorb themselves into their own conversations in hushed tones.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, calling for Geralt’s attention and halting him from following suit. He tugged gently at his promised’s elbow, guiding him in the opposite direction of the party.

He raised his eyebrow in silent question, unmoving to Jaskier’s direction. It seemed his time during the war had made his form unmovable and his frame something like that of a mountain. Jaskier was _very_ interested in this information, but such thoughts were not at the forefront of his mind in this instance. Now there was only one thought and that was retreat from his father’s droning madness of whom begat whom.

“Please,” Jaskier whispered his plea again. “Humor me, dear.” He squeezed gently at Geralt’s arm, a reminder of where they touched as if to make his point for him.

Geralt’s shoulders tensed for a moment as his gaze moved quickly from the Earl’s retreating form and back to Jaskier again. With a nod much more like a jerk of his neck, Geralt’s rough voice scraped in a whisper. “Fine.” He gave his acquiescence. “But only for the moment.”

Jaskier beamed, already beginning to direct Geralt now that the man had allowed himself to be moved even before he had finished. “I shall only steal you away for the moment, dear, I promise.” He assured. “For as long as my father will wax on about his forefathers.” Allowing himself the smirk as he pulled Geralt down a perpendicular corridor further into the west part of the house, Jaskier chuckled. “Which might be for some time yet.”

“I thought you would have respected your father’s ability to wax poetic about nothing.” Geralt teased, the light to his eyes giving the jab away as jest even before Jaskier’s eyes caught sight of the small growing smirk.

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier waved the thought away. “Geralt, there is nothing of the _poetic_ sort that my father consumes, much less communicates in.” He huffed, fingers tightening in reflex against Geralt’s jacket sleeve before remembering himself. Jaskier pulled his hand away completely, strolling beside Geralt closely as he turned them to face an offhand room whose door was less ornate than its brothers and sisters that resided in the same hall.

“Hmm,” Geralt commented without word. He took in the sight of the door carefully, as if gauging what could perhaps lie beyond it. “Wonder where you got it from then.” He continued the conversation idly, senses seemingly elsewhere and heightened while they were alone.

It occurred to Jaskier that this was the first time in all of their acquaintance - if it could be called as much now - that they had been alone in each other’s company. For all of their courting they had been accompanied by a chaperone. Now they stood before one another, completely alone and hidden from familial and societal expectations of how this courtship should happen.

Swallowing harshly, Jaskier wiped the sweat that slowly began to form on his palm against his trouser leg before reaching for the brass doorknob. “I’d like to show you something, if you would indulge me.” He spoke softly, afraid of rejection at a moment’s notice, as if Geralt had not indulged him in the entire time of them knowing one another.

“I’ve done so thus far,” Geralt inhaled sharply, eyes quartering Jaskier where he stood with how soft a gaze that greeted his vision. Perhaps Geralt was not speaking of just now, was speaking of what Jaskier was coming to realize. Geralt had been nothing short of the perfect gentleman and Jaskier would damn himself if he did not return the favor in kind. 

Jaskier could not fight the smile that set upon him with Geralt’s words. Returning it, Jaskier twisted the knob beneath his palm and pushed the door open. Leading Geralt into the room, Jaskier inhaled the air sharply. For all of father’s insistence that this room was nothing but a horrid smear in an otherwise fabulous home, Jaskier had been immediately aware upon his return to the Lettenhove state that his mother had kept the room tended to.

Faded blue paint had begun chipping away, the echo of the room’s first purpose as a nursery in Jaskier’s mind. Now the walls were lined with small, humble bookshelves filled to the brim with knowledge on the Seven Liberal Arts, History, and other such related things. The piano that Jaskier had learned to play on while he was but five years of age was pushed to the furthest wall. Some other instruments that the help had kept tended and functioning laid carefully in cases, stacked neatly in a row, save for Jaskier’s cello case which leaned against one of the chairs that sat in the middle of the room.

The cello he had brought home had been played often and was the instrument he was currently using to compose. The chair that carried the weight of the cello sat before a small music stand that was burdened with several sheets of music. Jaskier inhaled sharply again before striding toward the seats. He turned to face Geralt anxiously, wondering what Geralt would think of this piece of him.

Jaskier’s musical education was no surprise and now after such silence that he had experienced upon his poorly phrased words, he knew that Geralt seemed to at least give the appearance of humoring him. But this was Jaskier’s music room. This was his retreat and sanctuary. The only room in the Lettenhove estate that he could call his own. From birth to childhood, to adolescence to maturity, Jaskier had called this room his by design and sentiment.

Geralt’s gaze traveled about the room, quickly due to its size and lack of grand decor, Jaskier would assume. Those eyes seized Jaskier, locking him in place as Geralt slowly spoke. “This is where you compose.” His words were blunt but not unkind in the way that Jaskier had quickly associated with Geralt’s appraising of the situation.

“Yes,” he answered. “Well, at least when I’m home I do. At Oxenfurt there were classrooms that we could rent out so that everything was more…” Jaskier paused, searching for the world.

“Spacious?” Geralt offered with a raised brow.

Jaskier grimaced, chuckling for a moment and scratching at his ear. “Acoustic.” He corrected, internally wincing at the grimace that set upon Geralt’s features at the faux pas. Jaskier could admit to a smidgen of guilt that his own embarrassment should cause Geralt to feel so uncertain while he was making the effort to converse with him. “But it really is quite the same thing.” Jaskier shook off his anxious feelings and replaced his chagrin with a bright smile. “An artist makes do, yes?”

Geralt hummed, eyes averting from Jaskier’s gaze and falling onto the right corner of the room where Jaskier’s small music library was stored. “You would know more than I.”

Clapping his hands, Jaskier laughed jovially. “I should say yes that I do.” Jaskier offered a cheeky wink even if Geralt’s gaze would not catch it. The man before him huffed a short breath before turning to face him again until his eyes traveled farther behind Jaskier. Turning, Jaskier sought whatever had caught Geralt’s eye, only spying his cello case and music stand.

He turned a quarter to face Geralt partially, gesturing with a wave of his hand toward the two seats that sat near the center of the room. “Would you…” he spoke softly, eyes beseeching Geralt’s own as he took a step closer to the seats. “Would you like to hear something?” Jaskier whispered.

“Yes,” Geralt answered hurriedly as if afraid a moment’s hesitation would make Jaskier consider the silence a rejection. Perhaps he would have, but with Geralt’s attentiveness he would never know the silence and whether or not it would lead him to uncertainty. “That is if you would be so kind.” He remedied, speaking slowly as the words came to him one by one instead of all at once as they seemed to do with Jaskier’s own natural speech.

“It would be my honor, Geralt.” Jaskier promised, bowing slightly and beckoning Geralt to take a seat with another wave of his arm. “What sort of music do you like? Is there a song in particular I should play for you?”

Another hum was Jaskier’s answer to which he could only assume this meant Geralt either had no preference or hadn’t the faintest clue as to what sort of music might be appropriate to ask of him. Waiting patiently, Jaskier seated himself in the opposite chair. The cello case was pulled in front of him, clasps carefully undone by skilled hands as he continued waiting in that silence for Geralt’s answer.

“You _are_ going to have to answer, dear.” Jaskier teased lightly and he could feel his own mirth twinkle out from his chest and into his eyes. “Even a ‘no’ is an answer.” He blinked for a moment, thinking further on that. “Actually, sometimes ‘no’ is the best answer.”

Something like amusement seemed to color Geralt’s face as it did often when Jaskier played up his antics. Chuckling, Geralt replied pointedly. “No.” His teeth seemed to catch even in the dull light of the music room, enhancing his barely there smile.

“I suppose I shall just have to play the best of my repertoire to impress you thoroughly.” Jaskier moved his attention back to the cello, removing it and its bow companion from the case and carefully setting the bow aside and moving the case over before placing the cello in front of him. “Now, I know this splendid little spring song a professor of mine swore was used to summon the rain.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Why would one need to summon the rain in spring? Would that not be a more fitting prayer for the summer where the sun kills crops and livestock alike with its unrelenting heat?”

Jaskier laughed, startling Geralt from his deep thought. “So you admit the summer sun to be unbearable!” He shook his head of the remaining laughter. “It was used to summon the rain in the spring before there was ever rain to be had at all. That is why we have rain during the spring in the first place.”

Humming, Geralt nodded and listened with near intent. As if Jaskier’s words were something to be studied and remembered. Jaskier had another chuckle at that. As if he would be testing Geralt like those at Oxenfurt tested their students. No, that test Geralt had already passed merely by the state of his character.

The cello was, as Jaskier had stated previously, almost dull and unsuiting for a man of his social stature. The thing was reliable and lovely, and Jaskier had treasured it as the only piece of this room that his father’s money had not bought. That was truly its greatest merit. It belonged to Jaskier and not the Lettenhove name.

The strings were plucked with thoughtful care as Jaskier recalled the song. He hummed a few bars before taking up the bow and allowing it to kiss gently at his instrument. Where once his attention had been given with care to both the cello and Geralt, now there was only the music and those in the room with the music.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, continuing into the piece. He could remember his professor saying that the people who had composed this song were grateful for the rain brought to them by a goddess. They prayed that she would come, encouraging her to do the work she was made for. It reminded Jaskier of a ballerina and applause. A crowd begging for an encore. That was how he thought of the rain in the spring. An artist willing to perform her art. A grateful crowd in awe of her work.

With the final note ringing out from beneath the bow, Jaskier exhaled. He turned his gaze to Geralt only to find the man staring blankly toward him. Jaskier cleared his throat of the anxious laughter that threatened to bubble from his chest. “It has been some time since I’ve played that piece. I might be a bit rusty, but surely not bad enough for that sort of reception.”

Despite his attempt at a jest, Geralt’s face did not reflect the forced humor. In fact, Geralt did not seem to reflect much at all. Jaskier cleared his throat once more, hoping to draw Geralt from where he had hidden himself during Jaskier’s performance. Perhaps he had oversold himself, bore himself over until Geralt could no longer take it.

A moment more passed until Geralt spoke. His voice was that of a frog by a pond, croaking hoarsely until he shook himself of whatever had struck him. “Do… do you know how to play _Cavatine_?”

Blinking the immediate surprise away from his features, Jaskier let himself laugh in relief. If Geralt were asking for a song, surely he could not have performed as poorly as he had begun to fear. “My dear, of course I do!” Furrowing his brow and reluctant to disappoint Geralt, Jaskier carefully added to this. “But… that opus is meant to be a duet, Geralt. I may be an excellent musician, but I am one man.”

Geralt seemed hesitant, eyes flickering once again toward the corner of the room that held Jaskier’s library. “Nevermind,” he said hurriedly, waving the notion away quickly and looking elsewhere to find his words. This time Jaskier carefully turned to face the corner of the room that had caught Geralt’s attention. Surely it was not the books that had been calling to Geralt, not after the man had _requested_ of him a piece.

Jaskier’s vision was met with a few of his instruments. There was a flute here and a french horn there. A terribly embarrassing phase, Jaskier reminded himself as the french horn brought about a grimace to his face. Suddenly, Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat as he swiveled to face Geralt.

“Geralt.” He spoke carefully, calling for his attention once more. “Are you meaning to tell me that you play?”

If Jaskier were to be so bold, he might conclude that the color powdering across Geralt’s face was a blush of embarrassment. Geralt had not often been caught unawares in their courting, and even less was he likely to express himself openly. He made to speak once, twice, before clearing his chest with a deep sound.

“Baron Kaer Morhen ensured that we were educated men.” Geralt spoke gently. “We were… meant to take up one of the finer arts.” His eyes flickered like candlelight and Jaskier could not possibly consider anyway that this man could endear himself further to him.

Excitedly, Jaskier stood and rested the cello and bow gently against the seat he once occupied. He took long strides to the corner that he had been eyeing, looking over his shoulder toward Geralt as he spoke. “And what instrument are you schooled in, Geralt? If it is the french horn then I believe this newfound kinship to already be doomed.”

Geralt raised a brow, features already looking much more at ease now that the tension had faded and allowed their familiarity to flood the room. “What grievance do you have with the french horn?” The tilt to his voice allowed Jaskier the soothing thought that his initial embarrassment had begun to fade. In the very least, Jaskier hoped that was the truth.

“Nothing other than Berty Breyers having no idea how to play it and utterly ruining any possible beauty its note might portray.” Jaskier hummed, eyes roaming over his small orchestra for what instrument had been Geralt’s own choice. Jaskier doubted the Baron had forced an instrument upon Geralt, especially with the indication that they had been allowed to choose any of the courting arts and that Geralt had chosen an instrument. “Now, which one are you, Lord Geralt of Rivia?”

When turning to face Geralt, Jaskier was greeted with an entirely unfamiliar expression. The only thing Jaskier could equate it to was smugness as Geralt leaned back in his seat, arms relaxing on the rests. “Why don’t you guess?”

“Guess?” Jaskier laughed. “Shall we play a game then, dear? If I guess your instrument correctly, you must duet Cavatine Opus 37 with me.”

“And if I win?” Geralt’s brow rose into his hairline, lips stretching like a kite string in the wind. The sight was jovial and reminded Jaskier of all the things he did admire of the summer days. The brightly lit sun. The curving of the river.

Jaskier cocked his hip to lean against the table that carried the weight of some of his instruments. “Well, I suppose that all depends entirely on what you want, doesn’t it?”

Geralt paused, considering this, smirk shrinking and eyebrows meeting one another in a thoughtful furrow. “What I want.” He repeated not quite like a question, but not a mere statement either. Humming as he rested his hand below his chin, Geralt looked to be struck with a thought. Though subdued in nature, Geralt’s eyes widened a margin before turning to face Jaskier with their usual tilt.

“If I win,” he began, “then you owe me a favor which I reserve to collect at the time of my choosing.” Geralt stated simply.

“A favor?” Jaskier felt his cheeks ache with the width of his smile. “What is a favor between promised?” Shaking his head, Jaskier crossed his arms. “But if it is a favor you want, it is a favor you shall receive if I lose.”

Geralt’s smirk returned, dangerous and lovely all at once like some poisonous bloom that filled Jaskier’s chest. “When you lose.” He corrected with a tease.

Clicking his tongue, Jaskier faced his instruments once more. “I’ll have you know I am excellent at gauging a person. Why else would I be so good at the gossip I collect and whom I collect it from?” He jested, biting at his lip in thought as he studied the instruments before him. 

While there were percussion and stringed instruments elsewhere in the room, Jaskier knew Geralt’s tool of choice must either be brass or woodwind. Both were kept in the same vicinity, but not many were kept in Jaskier’s collection. He much preferred the stringed instruments himself, taking to the lute when he had need of travel, but the cello would always be his first love.

But what had been Geralt’s first love? What instrument had driven him to the brink of insanity well into the night? Which notes had he read until the ink splotches were nothing more than careless stains on parchment? Which oblong instrument was held within those powerful hands, made to submit and sing to his will?

Flushing, Jaskier tugged at his collar subtly, inhaling slowly as he took in the clarinet and the ocarina. The accursed french horn and the flute. Jaskier hummed as he thought, trying to recall the notes to Cavatine. If Geralt had requested that song, surely there was some significance to it for him. Perhaps therein lay Jaskier’s clue.

Jaskier straightened his back before turning on his heel. “Cavatine.” He grinned, watching for any indication from Geralt that he was on to the right path.

Geralt remained impassive save for the smirk that had settled into his features. “What of it?” He asked, demeanor nonchalant. It was both a challenge and a test. A test for Jaskier to succeed where there to be any hope of wooing this golden-eyed stare.

“Cavatine was written for the oboe, Geralt,” Jaskier announced, reaching for the case that held the oboe. It was not an instrument he had touched often. The oboe was rather versatile for an instrument, but Jaskier had always considered it better for harmonies rather than a solo performance, and Jaskier had not but himself to play with ever since his return home.

Opening the case revealed a humble oboe made of wood. The wood was dark and the reed smooth. Perfect for playing, Jaskier thought as he grasped the instrument before striding toward Geralt and holding it aloft. Returning the smirk that seemed to still play across Geralt’s features, Jaskier spoke again. “I suppose this means I win?”

A puff of laughter escaped from Geralt as he reached for the oboe. He weighed it carefully in his hands, gauging it with a measuring look. As he did so, Jaskier resumed his seat, taking care of his bow and cello. He poised himself and held his bow aloft in a dramatic fashion.

“Shall we?” Jaskier teased, wishing that his jest would hide the excitement that was held in his bated breath.

Geralt inhaled sharply, slowly placing the reed to his lips before moving it away again by a fraction. He adjusted his fingers, almost too large for the scale of the oboe and yet somehow graceful in their movements. It was not hard to believe Geralt’s grace and dexterity held within those impressive hands. After all, the man was a skilled swordsman in the war against Nilfgaard. Jaskier had expected no less from one of Redenia’s finest battlemen.

Softly, the first notes of the opus bled into the space between them. Jaskier gracefully danced his bow along the strings beginning Cavatine. He looked expectantly toward Geralt, anticipation breaking his palms into a slow sweat until the man across from him joined in the song. Geralt’s eyes remained open, not losing himself to the music as some musicians found themselves, but rather focused like a razor’s edge on his movements, the very breath of him that blew through the reed.

But his music, Jaskier thought in awe, and continued his dance with Geralt. Geralt’s ability to play the oboe was rivaled by no other at Oxenfurt. Not many students had decided to take up the oboe, and those that did quickly found themselves overwhelmed by their lack of poise. It had never quite seemed fitting in their concertos and soirees. But Geralt’s mere presence always seemed as if he belonged wherever he stood, even if he exuded his social awkwardness in the same instance. His confidence in his own talent and skill would have spurned jealousy in Jaskier had he not been entirely besotted and proud.

When they finished, their final notes singing in harmony with one another, Jaskier could not contain the beam that radiated forth from the very core of his being. “Geralt,” Jaskier chided gently, “you have been holding out on me.”

As if the sudden absence of music had reminded Geralt of his once embarrassed state, he quickly stood and moved to replace the oboe in its home. With his back turned to Jaskier, Geralt spoke gently. “I have not played since well before the war.” He confessed, shoulders tightening with a tension of remembrance or regret. Perhaps both.

Jaskier smiled sadly, heart aching for the sorrow that his promised was burdened with. Good men wished not for war, but good men were not afraid to finish wars. Geralt seemed that very man, scarred from his duty but not regretting his aid in the fight against Nilfgaard. He was called Butcher by some for the atrocities he had committed, but even before they were wed Jaskier had been permitted to see the man beneath the legend. Someone who was kind, caring to the point of disregard for his own self, and witty despite all that had befallen him. In that regard, Jaskier was proud of him tenfold.

“You play beautifully,” Jaskier spoke gently, meeting Geralt’s tone. “Was it the Baron who taught you how to play?” He inquired, curious nature begging him to further examine this piece of Geralt that the Lord of Rivia had exposed to him.

Geralt turned to look over his shoulder, facing Jaskier without any hint of a smirk but also without the sorrow that seemed to weigh his voice only moments prior. “Yes,” he answered gently, eyes sparking with the memory. It was odd for Jaskier to think of a paternal figure teaching a son an instrument. Jaskier’s own father had wanted nothing to do with his tutelage, let alone the passion he had pursued. While Jaskier could admit to envy, he admired the Baron too much for those sorts of sentiments and was grateful Geralt was able to experience them. To share those experiences with the Baron.

Geralt's gaze moved to spot the wall behind Jaskier, the blue faded but decorated humbly where it was closer to the room’s opening. His wide frame and graceful strides reminded Jaskier of the man’s mare. A large and formidable beast with composure to rival that of a dancer. Geralt stopped a few feet short of the wall, seeming to admire a picture that hung neatly in a golden frame. The frame was old but well taken care of. Jaskier suspected the help did excellent shining of frames and instruments alike.

“That is a sunset at our summer home,” Jaskier spoke fondly, knowing exactly which landscape the beloved frame contained. The memory overtook him, casting him back to his youth. He could almost feel the sunsetting against his skin, the water tickling at his ankles. “My mother used to take me there.”

A soft sound from Geralt drew Jaskier’s attention. He looked thoughtful, eyes pensive and brow furrowed as he gathered his thoughts. “You and your mother…” he began. “You’re very close, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t thought so, honestly.” Jaskier sighed, resting his cello to lean properly in its place and crossing his ankles as he sat. “But upon reflection, I think she has been truly the only family that I can claim from my childhood.” Chuckling, Jaskier shook his head. “Even now I realize how much she cares for me. After all, it was her that arranged this for me.”

Geralt’s gaze met Jaskier’s and once more Jaskier felt those alluring, fair eyes burn into the very soul of him. The furrow in his brow remained but this time his demeanor was decidedly more questioning. Upon seeing this, Jaskier clicked his tongue to hurriedly correct himself.

“What I mean is that it was my mother who insisted that we court,” Jaskier chuckled awkwardly, cheeks tinting pink. “I think it was her way of… mollifying me. In order that I might find the time to grow attached to my promised before being wed.”

The questioning haze that shrouded Geralt’s eyes did not clear when receiving Jaskier’s words. If anything, it seemed his brow furrowed deeper over his eyes as his hands twitched in their hold of one another. “Jaskier-” he made to speak up before the door suddenly burst open, disturbing the calm between them.

“There you two are,” Lambert cackled. Behind him Eskel peered into the room. “Can’t have you two sneakin’ off and dancin’ in the buff when that Earl barely wants you to have this place when yer both actin’ proper, let alone if yer actin’ a fool.”

Eskel snorted a laugh, pushing past Lambert in order to enter through the threshold of the room. “Really you both are fortunate that it was us who noticed you had slipped away and not the Earl.”

“Or the Baron,” Lambert teased with a dance of his eyebrows.

Laughing, Jaskier stood and placed his cello and bow away. He moved to set it in its proper place before addressing Lambert and Eskel. “It would be the Baron to catch our absence much before my father did.” He turned with a lopsided grin toward his future brothers-in-law. “Father is still on that wretched old painting of Great Aunt Ramilda, isn’t he?”

Eskel laughed, shaking his head. “You know the routine by heart.”

“Growing up in this house, you tend to hear the same stories more than once.” Jaskier shrugged, striding forward and offering his arm to Geralt. “I think this is where we take our leave. If we hurry, they won’t even have noticed we’re gone.”

After a moment, Geralt shook off his odd silence. “With Lambert and Eskel here, they’ll notice the loud chatter missing immediately.”

Lambert scoffed in mock offense, waving about his arm dramatically and draping it over his face. “I will never survive this. I won’t be long for this world with the cruelties you extend to me.” He turned to Jaskier with a wink. “If you had any sense, you would break this off now before the bastard turns his teeth to you.” He teased, earning himself a laugh from Eskel whilst Geralt rolled his eyes.

Jaskier thought in a peculiar way that he would not mind those teeth set upon him much like a bear trap’s iron jaw tearing into unsuspecting prey. He could chew his leg off, certainly, to escape these eternal jaws, but Jaskier welcomed his sentence. Offering Geralt his penance as the man dawned the costume of his garroter, jury, and judge, Jaskier knew he had already succumbed to this.

Besotted, Jaskier admonished his romantic thoughts. He was absolutely besotted with this man.


	6. Chapter Six: The Countess

It had taken some time to meet with Countess Vengerberg. As one of the most powerful women in the entire ton, she was rather busy. Jaskier was under no assumption that it was anything but Geralt's previous relationship with the Countess that had granted him an audience so soon.

Jaskier was rather anxious, truth be told, holding his cello case closely to his frame as Countess Vengerberg’s butler left him in the massive foyer to announce his arrival to the woman herself. The week prior had been filled with anxiously practicing, crying over his incomplete composition, and filtered in between were wonderful moments with Geralt. It was Jaskier’s sole solace in the days that had passed.

Roach - that notable mare - had taken a liking to Jaskier as he snuck her tiny sugar cubes. He was certain Geralt had been aware of it but pretended otherwise. It was pleasing to Jaskier that the man had allowed him the small indulgence of spoiling the horses on their rides. Their walks only numbered two in the past week, with the sun rising higher and lasting longer and Geralt finally taking pity upon Jaskier’s poor complexion.

He could count himself fortunate that his father’s will had turned so wonderfully for himself. His father’s bidding usually ended in nothing short of heartbreak, but perhaps it was his mother’s soft urgings that had allowed a promising bud to be planted instead of Jaskier’s own heart being plucked from his soft soil.

Startled at the sudden appearance of the butler, Jaskier flailed for a moment, using his cello as a counterbalance. Geralt had _insisted_ he play for the Countess - for what could better speak to his merit than evidence of his skill? Jaskier was uncertain about the propriety of calling upon a woman at her home to play the cello for her, but after Geralt had listened to him play the first time, the man had been rather persuasive.

Jaskier swallowed heavily before following the man through the house and out through a large, glass door that led into a patio of sorts. The patio bled into a garden and the garden expanded well beyond Jaskier’s sight. The butler cleared his throat.

“My lady will be with you momentarily,” he informed Jaskier, bowing dutifully which Jaskier returned in kind before the man took his leave.

Alone to his thoughts, Jaskier could not help but to reminisce upon Geralt’s audience to his music. Geralt had been one of the few to _actually_ listen, speaking with interest even if lacking in true understanding of musical expression. He was not so much as invested in the music itself, but invested in _Jaskier_. It had left him floating well into the evening and Jaskier would consider his thoughts that night to be almost virginal on account of how gentle Geralt’s smile had been.

Embarrassing for a once paramour to numerous lovers, but ever fitting of a man to be married, Jaskier thought gently to himself. One might find themselves embarrassed _for_ Jaskier and his flushing state in the presence of the witty and ever so lovely Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier shook himself of his thoughts, haunted by Geralt as the man seemingly had begun to overtake his faculties. It would aid him none to think only of Geralt if it would prevent him from impressing Countess Vengerberg. It would be a chance wasted; a favor from Geralt thrown away carelessly.

Instead, Jaskier turned his thoughts to the enchanting decor of the patio. There was part of a simple tea setting placed that Jaskier could only assume they would be using. Despite the set not being extravagant upon first appearance, it was every bit as impressive as the rest of the house. Ornate gold trims swirling around a porcelain set. Something imported from the beautiful East one might imagine.

The sun glistened onto the open patio, rays beaming off the sandstone and reflecting off the glamorous tea cups and saucers as if decorated with midnight stars. Jaskier was no more than a fish attracted to a lure, stepping closer to examine the almost ethereal shine to the forgein porcelain. Upon closer inspection, there _were_ stars. Glittering paint carefully drawn into intricate shapes that painted the flawless white porcelain and shaped into constellations worthy of poetry.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The voice from behind was soft as it was sharp. A dagger one did not feel until it had already pierced flesh and bone. Jaskier jumped, arms overcompensating from where the weight of his cello had not been accounted for when he turned. “It was a gift,” Countess Vengerberg finished, eyes dark and dangerous in their glint.

She was dressed down from her party where Jaskier had last seen her, but she was no less beautiful. Fine make-up that was dark around her eyes brought forth the violent violet that enraptured the gaze of most of the ton. It intimidated the rest, Jaskier thought anxiously to himself. Her lips, painted with a deep red, pulled into a smirk as her eyes took in his figure silently.

Beside her the butler appeared once more, this time carrying a silvered tray. Atop the tray was a small bowl of colorful fruit and the rest of the tea set. Presumably the sugar and the properly steeped tea, if Jaskier were to take a gander upon the hidden contents. He placed it with a flourish upon the center of the small table, bowing to the Countess and taking his leave when she dismissed him with a gracious wave of her hand.

“I had not expected to surprise you,” she mused, “Take a seat before you let that thing take you to the ground with it.” With a move born of finesse, the Countess gestured to one of the seats. Jaskier, clearing his throat, graciously bowed before obeying the command of the Countess.

Countess Vengerberg chuckled gently, a near whisper on the slight summer breeze. She gathered her fine silken skirt, thinner and not quite as large as some of the well to do ladies about court, but assuredly in the height of fashion, and she took the seat across from Jaskier.

“Thank you for seeing me, Countess Vengerberg.” Jaskier smiled politely, palms sweating as he rested them against the legs of his pants. “I understand that you are quite busy and cannot express my gratitude for your time.”

Scoffing, Countess Vengerberg rolled her eyes and leaned forward. She placed her chin on her hand in a bored manner, demeanor clear on her intent and feelings. A straightforward woman who on more than one occasion had out-witted, out-intimidated, and out-dazzled her peers amongst the Redenian court.

“It was a favor for Geralt,” she hummed, “and while you could not cut his social etiquette with a butterknife, he has somehow found himself in the realms of many people whom I wish to hold favor with.” Countess Vengerberg leaned back in her seat, setting her elbow on the rest of the armchair. Plucking a grape from the bowl, Countess Vengerberg bit it in half thoughtfully.

“Well,” Jaskier cleared his throat and forced upon his features a polite smile through his nerves. “Whatever your motivations, I am still honored by your presence, Countess Vengerberg.”

“I must admit a curiosity,” she continued, tossing the rest of the grape into her mouth before turning her full gaze to Jaskier. “Geralt does not ask favors of me lightly.” An unfathomable twinkle took to her eyes, indescribable to Jaskier. “I wonder what makes you so special.”

Her gaze was gauging, as if testing Jaskier’s merit upon this very answer. He was not foolish enough nor ignorant to the mere fact one misstep in the presence of Countess Vengerberg would be fatal. Jaskier chuckled lightly, moving one of his hands from his knee to take a strawberry. It reminded Jaskier of the picnic he had with Geralt and the company of Lambert not long ago. The fruit was just as fresh and sweet leaving Jaskier to wonder if they had acquired it from the same source.

“I do not know that _I_ am the one that is special,” Jaskier spoke thoughtfully. “Perhaps just the fool who was worthy of lady luck’s good fortune but for a moment that I might find myself engaged to that infuriating man.” Biting the strawberry to the green, Jaskier discarded the leaves onto his saucer before reaching for the kettle. “I hope you don’t find me presumptuous, my lady.”

Humming, Countess Vengerberg nodded. “Not at all.” With that permission, Jaskier poured first her tea and then his. After placing the kettle back to its rightful place. “This is a special blend,” Countess Vengerberg spoke beneath her fluttering lashes. “Unless you like it bitter, I’d suggest you use either the entire bowl or jug.” She raised her cup to those refined lips, eyes a spectacle of challenge as she sipped gracefully at her tea.

Not one to pass a challenge, especially under the eye of one of Geralt’s former paramours and the card dealer of his musical future, Jaskier took his own tea, forgoing both sugar and milk, sipping cautiously. The Countess had not oversold the bitterness of this strange tea. Spices that tickled at Jaskier’s tongue in an odd sensation burned as the tea trickled down his throat. Once he had finished his sip, he placed the cup upon the saucer, looking to Countess Vengerberg expectantly.

While she seemed not impressed at the result, it had seemed Jaskier possessed the muster to pass her unspoken test. She placed her own tea cup down, reaching for the milk jug to cream her tea. Chuckling, Jaskier in turn reached for the sugar bowl and poured his own generous helping to sweeten his cup.

After a few quiet moments had passed filled with emptying the fruit bowl and kettle, Countess Vengerberg signaled for her butler who scuttled to clean up the tea set. She turned to him with a whisper of which Jaskier could only hear the mutterings of wine. Those dark lashes fluttered before unveiling the strength of her gaze upon Jaskier. “Let’s get to business then, shall we?”

Nodding, Jaskier turned his attention to his cello. The case was fine leather, a result of many sleepless nights working to be able to afford it on Jaskier’s part. What he removed was a beautiful but humble cello. It was gifted with a body made of maple and a neck made of spruce. While the large piece was nothing to gawk at, it’s simple trim was telling enough to the allowance Jaskier was permitted in his days at Oxenfurt where he had purchased the instrument.

Countess Vengerberg’s voice suddenly cut across Jaskier’s concentration. “What is _that_?” She huffed, eyeing the trusty cello with distaste.

Jaskier blinked in surprise, fighting to keep the flush from his cheeks. Though the Countess’ blunt manner was to be expected from his vision of her, he was still taken aback by her sharp response. While he by no means floundered under the scrutinizing and rich stares his cello had received previously, there was something intimidating about the Countess’ judgement. Perhaps it was that she held his very future within her manicured grasp. Perhaps it was merely the fact that she previously held Geralt’s intimate gaze once before in that same grasp, twisting it about her finger like a strand of her dark, luscious hair.

“Yes, my lady.” He gently cradled the neck of the cello in one hand. “I know it is not something that belongs in the presence of such a renowned lady, but it is my humble ally at the moment.” Jaskier smiled gently, the sort that was reserved for speaking to his father when he was uncomfortable but knew he was before someone much more powerful than himself. “I shall endeavour to purchase one of a more enthralling design before I play before such an audience again.”

Another scoff as the Countess flicked her hair over her shoulder. “That is just like our Lord Rivia, isn’t it?”

A slight flair of indignation for Geralt’s sake floundered in Jaskier’s belly, but he could not deny that there was a peculiarity to Geralt that the Countess Vengerberg seemed familiar with. Jaskier inhaled sharply, steadying himself for whatever sentiment the Countess might express in regards to Geralt’s curious demeanor. “What is, my lady?”

Betwixt the finishing of Jaskier sentence and Countess Vengerberg’s next breath, her loyal butler was back, carrying what appeared to be a brandy at her behest. Countess Vengerberg stood, brushing off her skirt and tilting her chin with a command for Jaskier to follow. “Come. We’ll take this to the parlor.”

Grasping the proffered bottle by its neck from the butler’s hold, Countess Vengerberg smiled gracefully. “Fetch that package from the guest room, won’t you, Chireaden?”

Now that Jaskier was given a name to the rather dutiful face, he could spot the flicker of infatuation that appeared across his features. Perhaps it was her poise or fortune, but the Countess’ obedient valet was enamored with the lady of Vengerberg.

Jaskier deposited that thought for another time. A curiosity certainly, but nothing out of the ordinary when young men were employed by women of great renown. The valet bowed his head before taking Countess Vengerberg’s dismissal to fetch whatever parcel was left behind in her guest room. Jaskier idly wondered if perhaps Geralt had left something and this is what the Countess had been vaguely referring to.

Then again, to think of Geralt even in her guest quarters churned jealousy easily within Jaskier. It was foolish and unthoughtful of him to be so territorial of a man who had the freedom to do as he wished. When they had promised nothing beyond loyalty to their family names to one another. And yet, Jaskier still had begun to dwell in the hope that Geralt was beginning to feel this bloom too. That his heart was beginning to seek the melody to Jaskier’s own.

The parlor was even more grand than the patio could ever hope to be. The star twinkled tea set was a mere child’s setting when compared to the lustrous paintings and trim that decorated that expanse of wealth and splendor. Within the parlor was a lovely sette, matching chairs sat upon either end like tables, creating cushions that circled a large hearth that was not lit. It was only the early afternoon, Jaskier having just finished lunch before making his trek to the Countess’ estate. There was a piano, dark and equally grand in its luster. For entertaining guests, Jaskier could easily deduce, wondering if the Countess herself played or if her guests were of the famous and talented sort.

“It’s gorgeous, Countess Vengerberg,” Jaskier spoke softly, tracing the hearth and its beautiful dawnstars with the tips of his fingers. He smiled gently, recognizing the formation as one that was reflected in the tea set he had last seen not moments ago. “From the same admirer?”

The Countess’ demeanor shifted, lips curving faintly into her cheeks before the lady glided over to the small bar, selecting two glasses to fill and opening the bottle. The air permeated with the sweet-smelling brandy. From behind her, Jasker could see how her hair fell in waves, caressing the back of her dress and bleeding into her darker still skirt that fluttered to the floor with more grace than most of Jaskier’s Oxenfurt etiquette professors.

“The same friend,” she corrected, turning with glasses in hand before moving in the same silent rhythm as she had before to stand in front of Jaskier. Offering him the glass as she sipped her own, she quirked her brow before resuming. “Are you not familiar with the rumors as to how I amassed my wealth, Lord Lettenhove?”

“Familiar with rumors?” He chuckled a laugh, “No one knows them more than I. The truth, however, is another matter entirely, and never to be believed from the mouths of the ton.” Jaskier took a careful sip of his own brandy. “The truth is more oft than not found at its source.”

Countess Vengerberg gave a gentle nod, pursing her lips before swishing her glass of brandy in thought. “If the source can be believed,” she teased lightly, “then I amassed my fortune in the same fashion that Geralt and those wolves of the Baron Kaer Morhen amassed their fame. The war, of course.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, a solemn expression befalling his features. “Of course. The Queen Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Cintra charged you as part of her council, had she not?” He raised a brow, curiosity pleading with him to learn of the Countess’ exploits during the war.

Laughing, the Countess’ painted smile widened across her face, turning her cheeks into pink petals against ceramic skin. If Jaskier would consider poetic comparison, she was like the dawnstars marked along the kettle, mirrored in the harsher grain of wood at her heart. Something equally fantastical for how contrary this gentle-looking and all-powerful woman could be.

“And you would know all about Cirilla’s council during the war, wouldn’t you, Dandelion?” A smirk this time, keeping her amusement well-written across her beautifully damning features. “That was what _you_ were charged for, was it not?” The Countess reflected his own words easily, revealing the trap Jaskier had so foolishly sprung by his carelessness.

“I was aware of many things, my lady,” he spoke cautiously, eyeing his glass of brandy but letting it rest, “such is the duty of a bard.” Jaskier turned his gaze to meet her eyes. “But it sounds as if you know of rumors to grant you a narrative.”

The Countess Vengerberg glanced from her own brandy to Jaskier quickly, amethyst eyes sparkling with a ravenous curiosity. “What was it you had said? From the mouth of the source?”

Averting his gaze from the Countess, Jaskier steadied his breathing. Not once in all of his days since the war’s conclusion had he been confronted so blatantly. Not by someone who had not known. Triss, ever so loyal and his confidant in the kingdom of Temeria, had known. She had in fact been present when the Duke of Temeria had traveled under the guise of musical interest to the city of Oxenfurt. There, Jaskier had helped to relay information on Nilfgaard’s front lines.

Geralt had been suspicious of him once upon a time, before his promised’s first meeting with the Troubadour of Cidaris. Jaskier had hesitated confessing the truth to him, despite the lack of confidentiality there was to be had around such affairs with Nilfgaard’s defeat. Surely, Geralt’s part in the war was noble, and had he passed he would have gone with nobility and honor. The shadows and secrets were Jaskier’s aids and allies.

“I dare not to guess what you mean, Countess Vengerberg.” Jaskier emptied his glass, setting it upon the mantle of the hearth. “If you are insinuating that I was anywhere but Oxenfurt during the war, then you are mistaken.”

“Perhaps Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove was not,” she spoke sharply, eyes glinting dangerously as her grasp around her glass tightened. “ _Dandelion_ of Redenia’s Secret Service was behind Nilfgaard lines.” Countess Vengerberg pressed on, encroaching upon Jaskier’s space and forcing him to step back into the mantle. “Or was it the _Crimson Avenger_ that they called you?” Her hum was a steeled punctuation to her accusation.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, eyes darting toward any exit he might find. “I do not see why concerns of a war since passed haunt your thoughts so, Countess Vengerberg.”

“Does he know?” Countess Vengerberg’s eyes searched, daunting as they scorched their path into Jaskier’s very soul.

A short breath of surprise as Jaskier furrowed his brow, considering the Countess’ question. “Does who know what?” He feigned but for a moment.

This was apparently the wrong decision. Unlike their first meeting where he had passed by with his muster by but a margin, now it seemed the lady was unlikely to take his words to face value again. Ruining his chances at the Nightingale Orchestra and with one of Geralt’s dear friends all for the sake of Queen and Country, that seemed Jaskier’s dedicated course now.

“You would do that, wouldn’t you?” Her scrutinization ended suddenly, the Countess drawing back with a breath. “You would sacrifice everything because of an oath that means nothing anymore, wouldn’t you?”

Jaskier had only his silence to answer her. He had already tried his chances at lying, at feigning innocence, but the truth was something he could not give. Certainly not to someone more akin to a stranger than a friend. Not when he so hesitated to tell his own promised. It was not only unfair; Jaskier’s oath _still_ meant something to him. A duty he was no longer sworn to. A duty his father would never know he had spent years upon and his mother would never know he had sacrificed for. All the while Jaskier the Bard had jovially spent his young adulthood frolicking in Oxenfurt Academy’s halls.

“You’re more alike than I thought,” the Countess scoffed, but not unkindly. Finishing her own brandy and resting the glass beside Jaskier’s discarded one, the Countess thinned her lips. “He deserves to know.”

“He deserves a great many things,” Jaskier confessed gently, “and were I a better man I would be able to provide them.”

A hum not unlike how Geralt himself would communicate emitted from the Countess. She tilted her chin upwards, eyes hovering over Jaskier. If there was any more she wished to say, her words died on her tongue as the doors to the parlor opened. Chireaden marched stoically, eyes instinctually befalling to the Countess’ form as he carried the large parcel to them. Its shape was near indistinguishable, and Jaskier furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

“There you are,” the Countess clapped her hands. “Take it over to the sette so that Jaskier might open it.” She commanded the valet. Chireadan gave a curt nod before marching the large object to the sette, placing it upon the upholstery gently. The butler bowed deeply before standing at firm attention, gaze bound to the Countess’ movements.

The Countess glided toward the sette, beckoning Jaskier with but a wave of her hand. “I most certainly do not have all day, and neither do you,” she raised her eyebrow in a challenge that Jaskier dared not meet. Not at this moment where he was doubtful he had any favor in her eyes any longer.

Obediently, Jaskier followed suit and found himself before the largest parcel to have ever graced his vision. The mysterious package was gracefully wrapped, strings securing the paper together in order to preserve whatever was inside. Jaskier furrowed his brow, turning his gaze to the Countess once more. “Whatever is this?”

“Open it,” the Countess huffed, “or do you need assistance with that?”

Jaskier felt himself flare at the insinuation. “I do not require your assistance, my lady.” Taking in a sharp breath, Jaskier gently reached for the strings, pulling at the bow until it unraveled with his force. Slowly, strings fell to the sette and the paper was unfurled from shielding the object. Once the packaging had fully fallen away, Jaskier gawped in surprise. Such was his utter shock from seeing a piece of art before him.

On the sette, surrounded with its packaging, lay a cello. Set into the darkwood along the neck and body were ornate blooms. The flowers scrolled along the purfling, allowing for the cello to be reliable in its expensive make along with rich in its visual appeal. At the bottom of the body the blooms formed together in something akin to a carved bouquet.

Carefully, as if afraid to touch it with even a phantom trail, Jaskier reached out much like he had at the mantlepiece. The carvings were crisp, having been done with expert precision. Had Jaskier not felt the wood beneath his fingertips, he might have been of the proclivity to believe there was magic involved. Perhaps still there was, for these were not mere blooms to flourish on the cello.

Buttercups twisted around one another in playful patterns before Jaskier’s very eyes. His namesake burnt and carved into the cello clearly marking it as _his_. He was no fool, not when it came to these matters. Even someone near imbecilic could puzzle together the pieces that lay before Jaskier, plucking away at him as if the cello’s strings were cockles of one's heart. With the feeling in his chest, leaving him bereft of breath, Jaskier would swear it was his own heart bridged about the body of the cello.

Jaskier pursed his lips, breath stuttering for a moment. “Buttercups,” he whispered.

Beside him, the Countess raised her brow, crossing her arms over her bosom. “Yes, apparently something sentimental.” Her tone shifted into something less hostile than mere moments ago. A strange aura seemed to surround her as her demeanor shifted. “Are you alright, Lord Lettenhove?”

“That beautiful bastard,” Jaskier spoke breathily. Suddenly, he came to the realization that he was in the presence of a lady and had forgotten himself in the face of this wondrous gift. Jaskier chuckled awkwardly, cheeks flushed ruby. “You’ll have to forgive me, my lady,” a moment of a pause as he gathered himself, “I am not used to being smiled upon with such charitable favor.”

The Countess scoffed a laugh, eyes falling to the cello. “Well, I would not call this gift _charitable_.” Her eyes smirked for her and yet still those powerful lips that would tear a mere mortal asunder had pulled into the expression as well. “It was rather pricey.”

Jaskier swallowed heavily. The Countess was correct. Something this ornate would have to be worth more than Jaskier’s dowry. He would never be able to repay Geralt for the kindness. A sudden thought struck him as his gaze wandered far from the Countess, to a room in the Lettenhove house between the walls of his father. Perhaps it was _Geralt’s_ heart bridged across that cello, impossible as it seemed to Jaskier that he should have that piece of the man in his palm.

“I don’t know what to say,” Jaskier spoke again, eyes returning once more to the cello.

Beside him, the Countess snorted a laugh, hand fluttering about in silent command that Chireaden followed wordlessly. The butler ran to fetch the glasses they had left on the mantle to begin filling them anew. “Tell him that I am not a postal service and that he has used all his favors with me for the year.” Her words were almost mirthful, a shared joke between them.

Smiling more for his own benefit for he could not contain the joy held within his heart, Jaskier grasped the cello gently. He cradled it gently towards his chest.“I shall, my lady.”

“And,” the Countess took a seat on the now empty sette, “I want you to make him happy.” She spoke seriously, tone and expression void of any previously held mirth and teasing. “He might be an arsehole, but he’s…”

Jaskier’s heart swelled in understanding. The Countess and Geralt may have worked together in some life, but here in this one they did not. Instead it was something deep and immeasurable that spanned between them and Jaskier, while having no hope to understand it could most certainly understand loving Geralt of Rivia.

His swollen heart pounded ceaselessly in his chest for that moment. Oh, sweet Melitele herself. Jaskier could admit to a besotted demeanor and flourishing feelings, but to pronounce _love_ if even to himself seemed a most dangerous feeling. Rubbing gently at his chest to soothe the happy ache that lay there, Jaskier winked to the Countess.

“Of course, my lady,” he spoke cheerily. “He’s our asshole after all.”

Humming, the Countess raised her glass to her painted smirk. “Well, go on then. I should like to hear you perform sometime _today_ after all, Lord Lettenhove.”

“Jaskier,” he corrected her. “You may call me Jaskier, my lady. Should you choose to do so.”

The Countess brow furrowed, pulling the glass away from her face as she took in Jaskier’s appearance in full. “Jaskier?” She questioned but said no more. Her gaze flickered toward the cello quickly, analyzing as if she too knew the secrets of the blooms.

Perhaps this was the Countess seeing Geralt’s heart strung across the instrument. Jaskier could confess to being merely a man by how that made his chest puff with pride, a greedy worm eating away at him at the mere chance he held Geralt’s heart in the way his promised had already taken ownership of his own.

He bowed, taking a seat on one of the chairs that had rested near the sette. Positioning the cello before him, Jaskier took another moment to admire this cherished gift. Oh, how he would thank Geralt countlessly for this. Whyever his promised had not wished to gift it to him himself, Jaskier would find out. He would learn everything he could of the Lord Rivia, and he would take their entire lives to do it. That beautifully foolish bastard, Jaskier thought lovingly.

Inhaling slowly, Jaskier readied his bow before poising his fingers on the neck of the piece. He tempered a few notes, tuning the cello as he tickled the taut strings one by one. All the while the Countess sipped on her brandy.

Once the cello was properly tuned, ready for its first song, Jaskier inhaled deeply once again. A familiar melody that he had learned in his first years at Oxenfurt, practiced until perfection, emitted from the cello. The cello’s serenade was a whisper of the overwhelming emotion Jaskier felt in his current state. Closing his eyes, Jaskier concentrated on the notes, the technique, on putting forth the purely human element that only one who had both talent and skill might pour into a work of art.

Jaskier finished how he started; a humble bow before the Countess. He cradled the cello to him once more, body thrumming as it did when he took to playing. “Thank you for your time, Countess Vengerberg.”

A rather becoming look crossed her features. “Thank you for the music, Jaskier.” She hummed the tune to herself as if to remember the chords. “Do you have anything jaunty in your repertoire? I much like my afternoons to be filled with hearty music and a good brandy.” Countess Vengerberg winked, raising her glass in toast.

“No self-respecting musician is without his duality, my lady,” he grinned, placing his hands on the cello to resume playing. “Though I must confess that much of my jauntier tunes can be a bit too vulgar for some courts.”

“I heard that did not stop you from playing the Fishmonger’s Daughter,” the Countess spoke pointedly, amusement lacing her voice as brandy laced her breath. “In Cintra no less.”

Jaskier winked once more, cheeks aching with the strength of his smile. “Oh, but you must remember, dear Countess Vengerberg, that the Viscount de Lettenhove has yet to make it that alabaster city of lions.”

Laughing full heartedly, head thrown back and throat exposed as her hair fell like water around her frame. The Countess beamed. “Then I should hope to see the day that my dear friend’s husband makes it there to play before Her Highness, Queen Cirilla.”

Flourishing under the thought, Jaskier readied his hands once more. Whilst the cello was not oft suited for certain compositions, a talented musician could use any device to tell a story. Jaskier’s Oxenfurt education for the time he was there had taught him that much.

The cello heartily sang under Jaskier’s ministrations, belting out as the Countess slipped out of her shoes and curled her toes beneath her legs. If she were getting herself comfortable, perhaps Jaskier was to be a guest for some time. While Jaskier might have been unsettled by the insinuation at the first of their meeting, he felt as if he were more welcomed despite their disagreement on the truth of his placement in the war.

There would be a time for Jaskier to tell Geralt this truth. He was certain. Jaskier held on to the hope that Geralt would be understanding of his reticent nature.


	7. Chapter Seven: The Tree

The fall air was crisp. Where the summer sun had been unrelenting in its heat, now there was a cool caress by the very nature of the Continent surrounding those strolling about their day. With Jaskier’s worrying about his impression with the Countess, he had not the time to watch the autumn season begin to slowly creep into the corners of life. The leaves were almost all golden now and the very smell of that same crisp air carried with it all of autumn’s delights.

“I love the fall weather,” Jaskier beamed, watching the young children excitedly speak about the piles they would construct of the falling leaves once the season had settled in further. “And it is _much_ nicer for strolling, Geralt, I assure you.” He chided teasingly, squeezing the crook of Geralt’s elbow where he held it.

“The autumn air suits you,” Geralt replied gently. Much like their first stroll, his eyes remained stalwart and straightforward. Jaskier now knew this gesture’s intent was not to snub him, but rather the remains of conditioning that had been pressed upon him during his years at war. For that, Jaskier could not blame him. And with this angle and Geralt’s gaze so averted, Jaskier felt much more at ease staring openly at him when the stare would not be acknowledged.

Jaskier raised his brow, fighting away the smile that threatened to tear his lips apart. Most of his afternoons Jaskier underwent this experience in Geralt’s presence. The man would say something endearing, would stir the birds that had crafted a nest within his heart until the love that had slowly cropped in the confines of his soul burst through in bright smiles and longing gazes.

He had yet to thank Geralt outright for the beautiful cello as he had no idea that seemed suiting as to how he might approach the subject. Obviously, Geralt was either embarrassed by it or had not wanted to speak of it. Why else would he have charged the Countess with bequeathing Jaskier such an exquisite gift?

“How so?” Jaskier inquired, following up Geralt’s question moments after. “I know I have already officially filed my complaints on the summer weather with you, but I fail to see how the autumn seems to be the more fitting season for myself in your eyes.”

Geralt hummed, retaining his thoughts until he had arranged them in a way he saw fit. “You seem…” he trailed on with slow care, “...happier these days.”

Not expecting such an answer, Jaskier blinked slowly as surprise shortly overtook his features. He schooled his face quickly, fighting to tame the smile that endangered his cheeks with an ache. This time there was no hot climate to excuse the blush that crawled across Jaskier’s face.

Chuckling, Jaskier anxiously drummed his fingers against the crook of Geralt’s elbow. “Perhaps I am happier with you, Lord Geralt of Rivia.” He spoke earnestly.

He paused, turning this stoic gaze to bear upon Jaskier for a moment before returning to his pace. Steadily, Lambert and Eskel followed behind them at a distance as this afternoon’s chaperones. Geralt’s momentary pause was either ignored or lost to them as they talked in loud voices and animated hand gestures about something that had amused them.

Jaskier felt his face burn with embarrassment at the confession. While he had often been the first to confess and confess often in his young loving life, whatever was transpiring between himself and Geralt was different. Jaskier felt as if the horse they had once spoken of now traipsed gently in the flower beds and the flowers in turn kept the grass for the horse to feast upon. They understood one another. Lived together. Provided for one another and cared. In the very least, this was how Jaskier felt about their relationship.

But perhaps that was not the case. For it was Geralt that had gifted Jaskier so many things: time, patience, the cello. Jaskier had offered nothing more than the Lettenhove name and his own inheritance to Geralt. He knew himself to be lacking in this regard, but he had hoped that Geralt had felt differently. A part of his longing heart dared to hope that Geralt saw the wildflowers tending to the grass, keeping it healthy and plentiful for the horse.

Before Jaskier’s thoughts could spiral, taking him deeper into the crater of self-doubt that his plummeting heart had created, Geralt spoke in a whisper. “I too.” He said. “I too am happier these days.” Geralt confessed between them and it was carried on the autumn air to be intertwined with whatever Jaskier’s soul was made of.

“Good,” Jaskier responded with an equal amount of trepidation and awe. “I should consider myself fulfilled if but for a moment I was able to grant you happiness, Geralt.” His words were more blunt than what perhaps they once would have been, but the genuineness of Geralt’s countenance afforded Jaskier the confidence to return the sentiment in kind.

Hidden along the granite of his face, a slow smile crept like a fracture in Geralt’s stony face, breaking the illusion of stoicism and allowing Jaskier to see that Geralt’s words had held true. Never had Geralt lied to him, and Jaskier thought the man nearly incapable of it, had he not witnessed his fib about whether or not he had seen Eskel run by once when Lambert, drenched in some wretched and vile smelling liquid, had demanded whether the other brother had run by. That had merely been brotherly pranks, jests made in good fun, and not a lie made to truly deceive or with the intention of being malicious.

Strictly put, Jaskier did not imagine Geralt a man capable of malice. Was Geralt a man to do what was necessary? Had he dirtied his hands and scraped his knees on terrible deeds for the sake of the war? Surely yes, but despite this Geralt had not lied to Jaskier so he had not presumed Geralt to be a liar. Nevertheless, seeing Geralt’s expression shine through like the hidden sun through the shroud of clouds always sent the larks within Jaskier’s heart fluttering.

Although Jaskier had considered himself pacified with this mutual confession and sentiment, he still felt haunted by the notion he had yet to give Geralt anything in return. If they were meant to be courting, then courting gifts Geralt would receive. This was precisely why Jaskier had declined a Sunday ride with Geralt on the following day in favor of perusing the market for something that Geralt might like.

He was not a man for material things. His skin was bare of any jewelry and his coats were not made of silk. Geralt was a practical man who admired practical things. Jaskier could not simply buy him something for Roach as the man preferred to keep Roach’s own things himself and took great care when choosing them. It would make Geralt’s care of his horse seem more impersonal, and either way Jaskier knew little of horse care and equipment in comparison to Geralt and would be uneducated in his purchase.

Jaskier hummed as he admired the small, brass brooch selection one man was selling. If there was a handsome looking brooch that Jaskier could envision clasping Geralt’s riding cloak, then that might make a suitable gift - especially with the colder weather breathing its warning on the chill wind. Some brooches were too gaudy and some too simple. Jaskier offered a regretful smile toward the shopkeep before moving along.

What gave Jaskier’s steps pause was whispered words coming from the corner that Jaskier had yet to cross. They were loud voices, whispered and slithering like the damning snakes of lore. He furrowed his brow, stepping up with caution but not allowing himself to be seen. Pressing himself against the corner of the building, Jaskier stilled his breathing as to hear the words over his beating heart.

“Well, _I_ heard that he’s getting the whole bloody fortune once they’re married!” The first voice cackled, voice grating on Jaskier’s nerves already. While Jaskier was never one to frown upon shared gossip, for he would consider it the highest hypocrisy, there was a distinct malintent whispered among these voices.

“No way! That stupid Earl’s already started spending half of their fortune anyways.” A second voice rang out. “The gobshite probably has bloody knees from sucking on his cock. Only way he could have persuaded anyone into marrying him. He’s got the mouth for it.” The voice snickered and the action sent a disconcerting shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

A third voice that Jaskier would recognize in the deepest jungle in the farthest reaches of the World spoke out. “I hear that the Baron is selling his children.” Lord Valdo Marx laughed. “To the highest bidder, probably. That must be why he adopts young boys. To raise them and sell them like cattle.” Although Jaskier could not see it, Lord Marx’s grin must have curled heinously as his disgusting words spewed forth.

Stunned, Jaskier felt himself frozen to the spot. His first thought was prideful and had demanded he come out from his hiding place and confront the Lord Valdo Marx immediately. The second thought to come to mind, however, was of a conversation that had long since past. A request Geralt had asked of Jaskier once they had first begun to truly speak to one another about their arrangement.

It was a plea from Geralt when they were just beginning to understand one another. A simple proposal that no matter what Jaskier would seek to do, it would not sulley the name of Baron Kaer Morhen. Except now it seemed simply by mere association the Baron’s noble name was being tainted with the moniker _cattle driver_. Whispers alluding to the fact that the Baron was anything but charitable and kind to the men he considered his sons and had instead held the intent within his heart to use them as the Nilfgaardians had used Redenian children during war.

Perhaps this was it, then. The most considerate gift that Jaskier could offer to Geralt in repayment for his kindness. The words from Lord Valdo Marx’s mouth were poison, but he was not clever enough to come up with them on his own. Surely, if Marx was spreading these horrid rumors they had not grown from him. If these offensive statements had already begun to be whispered amongst the likes of him, then there would be no salvaging Baron Kaer Morhen’s name in the Redenia court’s. This ill-rumor would paint him as a monger to the men he had done nothing but care for as if they were born of his own lineage.

Jaskier knew what his own reputation would mean for himself when becoming involved with the courts. Even Geralt had understood that Jaskier’s promiscuous past would catch up to them in rumor and whisper, but this was hearsay encroaching upon the name of the one person Geralt had strictly asked Jaskier to protect above either of their names. The one to whom Jaskier swore he would protect as if it were his own mother’s name. To protect the Baron’s name would be the kindest gift Jaskier could bequeath. 

His limbs felt numb as he pushed himself away from the wall. Jaskier could not remember from which direction he had come nor to which direction was he going for a moment of time. Blinking the stunning remarks of the Lord Marx and his friends away from his senses, Jaskier turned suddenly. An elderly woman met his swift movement, causing him to sway in order to keep them both upright. Thankfully, the woman herself was quite hearty and steadied easily.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry!” She apologized before Jaskier could find his words, such had his tongue swollen within his skull at the sudden attention that there might be sordid rumors being set upon the Baron’s name.

“No, the fault is mine, madame.” He bowed, taking care not to overthrow himself. “I should have watched where I was spinning to. Are you alright?” Jaskier measured her with care and she seemed rather suited to bumping about in the market. Perhaps she was used to people of all manner bumbling their way into her as they went about their business.

She smiled kindly. “Fit as a fiddle!” Her laughter was sweet, a balm to the madness thrust upon Jaskier so suddenly. “I can’t complain about handsome young men running into me.” Her hands, small but well fitting to her short and stout frame, fluttered about quickly as she spoke. Adjusting her purple hat, she let out another soft chuckle.

The smile that Jaskier had returned to her quickly fell from his features, his brow setting itself into a furrow as he remembered his duty. “You will have to pardon me, madame. I have urgent business to attend to.”  
  
Clicking her tongue, the older woman gave a reassuring smile. “Think nothing of it, young man. You just take care to always catch those you run into.” She winked, a younger soul flashing behind her eyes and momentarily easing the harsh weather that had set upon Jaskier’s heart.

With a sharp bow of his head and a wave, Jaskier turned on his heel. Quickly, he followed the trail that he had come from through the market. The gentleman who had nearly sold him on a clever brooch waved at him as he went by, and he returned the greeting briskly as his steps increased their speed. He was grateful that he had decided to practice his riding on this fine Sunday. Fleeing with Pegasus would be much less conspicuous than the family carriage as he hurried to the Lettenhove estate.

Tremulous thoughts flew by Jaskier, biting at his cheeks like the wind as he rode. If already more than the Lord Marx’s repulsive miscreants knew of these rumors, then there was little time left to break off their engagement if Jaskier hoped to spare the Baron - to spare Geralt. Pegasus faithfully carried him toward the estate as the world became a hollow sounding blur of poisonous thoughts around Jaskier.

He blinked, eyes burning just as much as his exposed skin and perhaps just as red. It was a foolish thought to think that he had not sullied his own name well enough to taint the name of those around him. Even his father’s title was not safe, but such was a name he had no qualms tainting. His poor mother, however, had not been safe from Jaskier’s past. Jaskier could only hope that he could spare the Baron of his mother’s fate thus far.

If his mother had known the truth of Jaskier’s time during the war, perhaps she would be proud of him. But Jaskier’s mother would never know for she could never know. And now Geralt could never know either. Not unless Jaskier were to marry him and he simply could _not_ marry Geralt now.

Jaskier would write him a letter at once as soon as he reached home, take his father’s admonishment and possible banishment from the estate. His mother’s disappointment at breaking off the engagement would be sour on his palette, but he could shoulder the burden of her sorrow if it kept his promise to Geralt. For he was nothing if not loyal, Jaskier thought to himself bitterly.

The words of the letter had already begun to form as Jaskier pulled Pegasus to a stop once he reached the grounds. One of the footmen dutifully took the reins, a concerned expression forming on the young man’s brow. Jaskier could recall conversing with the same footmen hours before, speaking excitedly about his shopping. He could envision the thoughts of his return, disheveled and without gifts, that must have come to the footman at the sight of him. An odd sight, certainly, but one Jaskier could not dwell upon when there was business to be done.

With a small word of thanks, Jaskier dismounted, letting his feet carry him into his music room. The help bowed dutifully as he passed, watching Jaskier’s peculiar haste with interest as he rushed through the manor. While Jaskier could hear his father’s reprimand about how the study was meant for this sort of business, Jaskier felt his music room was the only place that he would be able to think, to express himself with sincerity. Geralt deserved that much, in the very least.

 _No_ , Jaskier corrected, Geralt deserved much more than that. Things that Jaskier would not be able to provide with the manner of his younger years at Oxenfurt being discussed as it was. Untrue, most of it, but sorely needed if his cover was to remain. He had sworn to the Crown just as he had sworn to Geralt. In order to keep the word of both, this was the action that Jaskier needed to take, as reluctant as he was.

Jaskier paced for a moment as he tried to gather himself. His thoughts came too suddenly, scrambling and singing without restraint. Jaskier sat heavily upon his seat, the same seat that he had once rested upon while dueting with Geralt. He could remember the evening well. Geralt’s eyes upon him, the softness of the man’s voice and the gentleness with which he held the oboe.

Such thoughts fed his heart and gave him the courage to do what he must. Inhaling sharply, Jaskier stood and marched to the small desk that he called his own. He removed his quill and ink from the top most drawer and stole away some of his spare parchment from the next. He exhaled slowly, beginning the mantra of steadying breathing as he worked. With greater force than he had ever wielded either sword or quill, Jaskier began his address.

The following days were a silent tension and it was this silence that had done Jaskier in, just as it had the first time when he had misspoken in Geralt’s company. Unlike the first time, however, there came a letter the immediate day after the incident Jaskier had incited. Jaskier had refused to open it, fearing an agreeable response to the breaking of the engagement. It was Jaskier’s mother who had approached him, a different letter in hand bearing the seal of the Kaer Morhen house, on the third day after Jaskier's letter that had made his resolve in breaking the engagement waiver.

“What is this, Jaskier?” She spoke softly as not to alert whatever ears might have held loyalty to the Earl’s ever wandering form within the manor. Jaskier knew from his mother’s use of his preferred name that it was to be an intimate conversation. He looked oddly to the letter and then to his mother again.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier responded in earnest, taking the offered letter from his mother with a curious glance. The seal was opened, indicating that his mother had already read the contents. It was addressed to her according to the handsome script marking the front of the envelope.

Frowning, his mother shook her head and grasped at her skirt nervously. “It is from Baron Kaer Morhen. He says his son has not heard a response from you and fears that you are not of good health.” She whispered. “Are you alright, my Jaskier?”

Jaskier exhaled sharply as he read the Baron’s writing. His mother’s words held true as to the letter’s contents. The Baron asked for his health, expressing that Geralt held concern that he was not well after being without response. He turned to his mother, forcing upon his features a smile that was laced with a false bravado that he had quickly become familiar with during his years in Her Majesty’s Service.

“I’m alright. I promise.” He assured her gently. “I think the colder weather is catching up to me earlier this year.” Jaskier fibbed as easily as he breathed, pondering upon Geralt’s withholding of the full story to the Baron. Had Jaskier not explained forthrightly and in great detail how their engagement must end for the sake of Kaer Morhen’s reputation? For what reason would Geralt refrain from divulging the entire story to the Baron of Jaskier rescinding their engagement unless it was because the man had not understood Jaskier’s written word?

His mother clicked her tongue, disbelief coloring her features with a finely tipped quill. Her poise was always sharper in a way that Jaskier had never quite been able to refine for himself. While Jaskier was a paintbrush of emotions, his mother had learned quickly over the years to restrain her emotions to finely crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s. It was impressive if not disheartening at how much his mother had slowly grown into a sharp instrument in the defense of his father and the court’s judgement.

“I _am_ fine.” He pressed again, passing back the parchment containing the Baron’s misplaced concern. Jaskier would have to give thought to visiting Geralt’s letter in order to glean where the confusion had been placed. “You have my word.”

“ _J_ _ulian_ ,” she addressed him firmly. “He still has your word too, does he not?”

The first ache of truth rang across Jaskier’s heart as he spoke. “I am keeping my word, mother.” For his word he _was_ keeping in defending the Baron’s good name by doing the only thing Geralt had ever asked of him. The greatest gift was the one most treacherous to his heart, having already admitted to being in love with the man, but the most genuine act of devotion he could provide.

Jaskier departed from his mother’s company with a promise to see her at dinner and with every intention to read Geralt’s letter. Surely, there must have been some clue within the ink stains upon the parchment as to why Geralt was concerned about him. The Baron’s letter spoke as if Geralt was under the impression that there was something else to do other than revoke the arrangement.

When Jaskier had finally hidden himself away into his music room, he sought Geralt’s letter. He had tucked it safely away under his music sheets where none of the help had ever dared to touch. It felt private, even without having read it. It was not often that Geralt wrote to him, only ever on the occasion to ask for an outing for their courting if it had not been arranged at the end of the last outing prior. This time was different. This was a letter from a man he was no longer engaged to.

Taking his seat, Jaskier broke the seal off the envelope. The impressive wolf dipped into the wax tore as his fingers finessed the letter open. With a shaking breath, Jaskier removed the parchment from its sheath, admiring the quality to it. It was familiar, the same stationary that the Baron’s letter had been written on. It made their affairs seem more homely in a way that Jaskier found comforting. His father, mother, and himself all had their own parchment even though they carried the same seal for the house of Lettenhove. But there had always seemed to be a personable charm to the house of Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier’s eyes fell over Geralt’s swooping letters, absorbing the sights of his marks against the page rather than consuming the words written there. He focused himself to glean answers, to understand where his first letter went wrong. So often he was brilliant with his words, finding the exact amount measured to be enough to express himself. To need not a letter more or a phrase farther. Now it seemed his schooling had failed him. A bridge of communication that Jaskier thought patched between himself and Geralt had burned in the wake of Jaskier’s decision.

He furrowed his brow, reading over the words again. In much the same way as the Baron had written, Geralt asked for his health. He asked if he had eaten. If the composition had come undone again. Geralt inquired about his rest and if the weather was growing too cold. The man had even written asking for Jaskier’s measurements should he need a richer coat, explaining that the Wolves of Kaer Morhen knew personally a tailor who fashioned heavy coats for harsh winters.

Jaskier blinked once and then twice in succession for there was no understanding Geralt, was there? He had thought his words were written in plain terms that their engagement should end for the sake of the reputation of Geralt’s house. The Baron’s sanctity was being questioned, his character threatened, and all to do with Jaskier’s unchaste encounters in his younger years. Had Geralt not understood the danger that Lord Marx and other vile men proposed to his name and title?

It had occurred to Jaskier, of course, that Geralt’s name had already been sullied by the effort in the war, but the man had once told him that his own name had tainted the Baron enough. This is why Geralt had pressed upon Jaskier to remain pure in the eyes of the ton. Should there ever be a question of his loyalty to Geralt, it should not waver for the sake of the Baron’s name. Now with these rumors, was it any wonder that Jaskier had chosen to break it off? Not out of fear, but for the wit of out-maneuvering rumor with reason? If there was one thing the war had taught Jaskier, was it not how to play chess among men who had not thought him playing?

The thunder clapped loudly from outside Jaskier’s window, signaling the oncoming storm. It looked to be setting in for the evening. Perhaps the rainy weather would keep itself in the following days, Jaskier thought with a shiver. The rain always made the autumn wind colder, and yet there was a serenity in watching the droplets cascade down the grand windows. Sighing, Jaskier took up his quill and parchment, readying a reply for Geralt’s concern.

It came as a surprise that in the ensuing days more letters would make their way to Jaskier. The first one remained unopened even as another followed in its place a mere two days after. There came no more letters from the Baron and Jaskier’s mother asked not of his arrangement. It seemed the Earl had no greater interest in it either way, whether he believed it to be doomed from the start or already secured, Jaskier did not know. But for now, there were two letters that stared at Jaskier even as he tried composing.

Sighing, he set aside his cello, watching the water droplets crash heavily into the window as if in a drunken stupor. The rain had been set in ever since Jaskier had read Geralt’s first letter. After his response, he could not find it within himself to see more just as he had the first time. 

He had poured his heart out onto the page, explaining with greater emphasis all the reasons that their engagement must end for the sake of his promise and confessing the depth of his emotion toward Geralt. Perhaps even if Geralt felt nothing for him in return, the man would respect him well enough to spare Jaskier his dignity in the face of such an inglorious love confession over old parchment and spilled ink. However, Jaskier was not brave enough to face Geralt’s final words, or perhaps he was too prideful to not have the final say in their relationship.

Jaskier could admit to being brash. To act quickly and foolishly. That was how he survived in such an ever-changing world, but now he could think of no other method for survival other than to run. Running is what he did best, afterall. When the affair with Roman Mackov became too serious, when the Nilfgaard invaded the small city of Lockermorne, when his father had commanded that he carry himself with a certain decorum, and now. Especially now.

Running, Jaskier tucked the letters away again, under the old music sheets, and returned to his cello. He hummed, the echo of _Cavatine_ calling his fingers across his cello strings. The song sounded hollow without its oboe counterpart to harmonize along the melodies. The cello, carved with its beautiful blooms, felt heavy in Jaskier’s grip with the weight of Geralt’s kindness and the last remnant Jaskier had to their courtship save for the memories that lingered with the last ringing note.

A knock came upon the door, alerting Jaskier to his surroundings and drawing him from his brooding. He sighed as he stood already mourning the afternoon as another day without inspiration for his composition. Not when the only instrument to finally spark within him as the duet piece he needed reminded him too dearly of Geralt with the wound still tender.

He carefully set aside his cello before striding to the door. Jaskier straightened his coat before opening the door, raising a brow when he was met with one of the maids who cleaned this wing. “Yes?” He inquired softly.

She curtsied, skirt dark in her pale hands before smiling politely. “Lord Julian, I was sent to summon you to the drawing room. You’ve a visitor.”

“A visitor?” He furrowed his brow, peering over his shoulder to watch the ticking of the oak clock that resided within his music room. “At this hour?” Jaskier turned back to face the maid. He was certain her name was Abigail or Amelia, but he could not swear upon it. The estate was much too large for him to remember the names of the help that had been hired during his time away as of yet. Jaskier considered himself decent for the attempt when some lords that shall remain unnamed, but whose surnames rhymed with marks, made no attempt whatsoever. He digressed, returning himself to the moment as Amelia - or Abigail - resumed speaking.

“Yes, m’lord,” she spoke with a gentle curl to her voice. It was an accent reminiscent to those farther south than Jaskier had often found himself. “It’s the Lord Rivia. He apologizes for the late hour, but he says it’s urgent business, m’lord.”

Jaskier felt himself pale, a sickness falling upon him as the thought of what Geralt might be doing here squeezed upon his heart. Was it because Geralt’s last two letters had gone unanswered? What could Geralt possibly want now that their engagement was ended? A hiccup of breath and Jaskier twisted to look at his cello. Perhaps Geralt wanted it back now that he was no longer courting Jaskier. It was rare that a courting gift should be returned if the courtship was nulled, but not unheard of.

He felt himself reluctant in wanting to return it, if that were the case. Selfish was he in wanting to keep this last piece of Geralt for himself and his heart had already grown attached to the beautiful piece. Certainly, if Geralt wanted to collect the cello he would have come at a reasonable hour that did not encroach upon the evening. Jaskier reasoned that Geralt must not have been here for the cello, but to speak to Jaskier himself.

That more than the cello frightened Jaskier. Inhaling sharply, he smiled toward the maid. “Thank you. Please inform Lord Rivia that I am not feeling well and cannot entertain visitors this evening. Send my regrets.” He instructed her, moving back into his room to set the cello in its place. The rain fell heavily on the window, slowly building in its force from the small pitter-patter of recent days until curtains cascaded from the thick clouds overhead.

Amelia - Jaskier had decided on - frowned, biting at her lip before reluctantly nodding. “Yes, sir.” She pursed her lips before speaking quietly. “Should I tell him to visit back tomorrow morning?” Her hands fiddled with her skirt, pressing out the crinkles in a seemingly anxious manner.

Jaskier paused, considering his answer before he turned from his cello case to the maid. “No,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “Please just… just tell him that I cannot see him and say no more.”

“As you say.” Amelia curtsied once again, dipping her head but taking care not to tip too far as to make her dainty, uniform hat topple over. “I hope you get to feeling better, m’lord.” Her earnest voice was matched with a concerned smile.

“Thank you,” he bid her ado and dismissed her, quickly tucking away his things into their proper place. She left him to finish his business, no doubt hurrying along to inform Geralt - or should Jaskier begin to address him as Lord Rivia once more? - that Jaskier would not be able to take his company this evening.

Jaskier shut the door behind him as he exited his room, intending to sequester himself into his chambers for the rest of the night. He did not feel like supping after the uneasy news that Geralt was asking of him. It was easy to become unsettled by things one could not predict. Before he could travel further than the hall, footsteps thundered like the sleeting rain until they were close behind him. He turned to face the petite figure of Amelia charging after him with panting breaths.

“M’lord!” She called after him, halting just three feet short of him. Her hands wiped at her dress hurriedly before she spoke. “It’s Lord Rivia. He insists on speaking with you this very evening.” Her eyes flickered to and fro for a moment. “He refuses to leave without speaking to you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier straightened out his jacket as he thought hurriedly, fingers twitching for a moment against the fabric as he pulled it taught over his chest. “Then speak with Jimothy. If the Lord Rivia persists, then he is overstaying his welcome.”

Amelia bit her lip, shaking her head. “M’lord Julian, I’m afraid that when Lord Rivia began to insist, he did so rather… obstreperously.” She twisted her hands anxiously. “It drew the attention of the Earl.” Her voice squeaked.

He swallowed heavily, throat dry around the bile he fought. “My father heard him? As in…” Jaskier trailed off, looking over Amelia’s shoulder as if the mere mention of him might summon the Earl himself.

“He’s trailing him along the house looking for you.” Amelia’s concern returned and Jaskier was grateful for his good relation with the help in this wing if it earned him the care she was currently extending to him. Her tone seemed sincere as Amelia looked toward him imploringly. “You know the passage ways, yes m’lord?”

“I know them well,” Jaskier chuckled, his laugh a breath. “Thank you, Amelia.”

She smiled, cheeks pressed upon with the strength of it. “Of course, m’lord.” Amelia curtsied once more, an increasingly familiar gesture from her as she retained the decorum that was to be expected between them. “If any should ask, I haven’t seen you.”

Jaskier laughed, subdued as not to be heard, before winking. “Thank you, dear.” He bowed in kind, hurrying along the hall as he heard Amelia’s own steps retreating. She had given him a head start, in the very least. Jaskier would have the advantage that his father knew not his hiding spots and Geralt was unfamiliar with the grounds.

His experience during the war was not for naught as he moved quickly, footsteps light. He turned another corner, pausing just short as he heard voices. Muffled and undefined, though Jaskier could recognize their distinct voices, a conversation about his whereabouts was drifting through the hall. His father and the wet nurse who had known him since he was a babe spoke animatedly. Jaskier could barely hear Geralt’s grunt but it was enough to make Jaskier aware that Geralt was close.

Taking in a breath to prepare himself, Jaskier swiveled upon his heel, turning to one of the servant’s passageways that lead outside. The rain was heavy, not quite an onslaught, but enough to cause Jaskier hesitation. But if Jaskier’s choices were a confrontation with Geralt or the downpour, then he would take his chances against nature.

The path was easy and one that Jaskier knew well. Tracking through the mud was more difficult, but not something that Jaskier was unaccustomed to. The wet grounds sloshed against his boots, soaking into his toes. An autumn chill danced with the rain making the weather rather cold and immediately Jaskier regretted his decision. He knew what the chill could do to one's limbs if they were not protected against the forces.

Unfortunately, Jaskier had little choice. He trekked toward the large tree out on the east side of the grounds. He used to hide in its shadow in his younger years, recalling the time where he had hidden from his father after ripping his tunic apart. Perhaps now it would shield him from the rain just as it had shielded him from his father’s gaze all those years ago. Jaskier could remain concealed until he could consider his next move. He trudged onward, boots sinking into the mud and rain causing his hair to cling to his forehead.

Jaskier considered his luck to be changing that the rain did not increase its thunderous downpour. The enormous tree that would be Jaskier’s shelter was just in sight. Sighing with relief, he stepped forward to increase his speed before his name was shouted over the sound of the rain. His bones felt the chill of the rain all at once as he turned to face golden eyes piercing at him through the grey, sheer curtain descending from the sky.

“Jaskier.” Geralt called again, voice more restrained in comparison to his shout moments ago now that he had Jaskier’s attention. “What the hell are you doing.”

Huffing, Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest in hope to keep his core warm against the chill. “Taking a stroll in the rain, obviously.” He brushed his soaking bangs out from his face, furrowing his brow as he examined Geralt’s form amidst the muddy colors of the wet evening. “How did you even find me out here?”

“The tree.” Geralt grunted. “The tree in the east grounds.” He spoke as if that explained anything. As if that did not leave Jaskier with more questions than he had answers for the man.

Jaskier rubbed his hands against his arms in a flurry of motion. “Well, now you’ve found me. Wonderful job.” He bit at his cheek to keep his teeth from chattering against the threatening cold.

Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before taking a step forward. “What are you _doing_ , Jaskier?” He asked again, repeating the inquiry he had pierced Jaskier with on the first of this encounter.

“I told you, Lord Rivia.” Jaskier’s breath hitched at the twitch exposed on Geralt’s face. He seemed irritated, perhaps from the rain and whatever game he thought Jaskier was playing. However, Jaskier was not playing and he would very much like this to continue elsewhere if it had to continue at all. “But since you’ve interrupted my rainy stroll, I think I shall head back inside.”

Geralt’s teeth bared, the man grunting as his hands flexed for a moment before he spoke. “ _No_ , I mean-” he cut himself off with a faint snarl before continuing, “what the hell are you _doing_ , Jaskier? You said that you heard _Lord Valdo Marx_ say something?” Geralt took another step forward, boots squelching against the mud but more sturdy and resilient than Jaskier’s own dress as he carried himself closer.

“Well, that is the one trait we do have in common. We modern bards are very attuned to the latest gossip.” Jaskier could feel his teeth begin to clatter. Idly, he remembered Geralt’s offer of a finer coat and immediately longed for the warmth of it. “If you had _heard_ the words he had used when continuing the tale, perhaps you would better understand my position.” He furrowed his brow, “Though, I must admit that I do not understand how you are not already understanding of my position as I am doing this to defend the honor of you and your family.”

A sharp exhale of breath against the rain steeled Geralt’s features. He turned away from Jaskier, fixing his jaw as if chewing on possible words before returning his gaze to Jaskier. “You should know better than anyone that the words from the tongue of that Valdo Marx are _bullshit_.” Where once Geralt had taken care to hold his tongue from more common speech he now disregarded.

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond but shivered, holding his arms tighter around himself. Cursing beneath his breath, Jaskier scrunched his nose against the cold as if the simple action might grant him more warmth. At this, Geralt stepped forward, his large frame’s close proximity already radiating heat that eased the chill on Jaskier’s bones. The accursed gentleman that he was, Geralt removed his own coat and threw it over Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him in closer into the warmth that naturally emitted from him.

“Did you do anything?” Geralt whispered above the rain, breathing a warm fog that trailed toward Jaskier’s face as he moved closer.

“What?” Jaskier blinked in surprise. “I am solely responsible for this! My entire Oxenfurt career is why this situation is so disastrous.” He shook his head, grasping at the lapels of Geralt’s jacket and drawing it further over himself.

Geralt hummed, a vibration that Jaskier could feel from how close he was. His lips curled slightly though Jaskier could hardly see it through the rain. Already Geralt’s hair clinged to the sharp features of his face, but thankfully his locks were well contained and did not conceal his features from Jaskier’s view. It was only the grey haze that the Lettenhove estate seemed to be saturated in that caused Jaskier to hesitate as to whether he was truly seeing the hint of Geralt’s smile.

“Your past makes no difference to me or to Vesemir. What matters is that you did nothing with the intention to slander his name.” He shook his head and Jaskier would swear the man looked nearly fond. “You _fucking idiot_.” Geralt combed the sticking locks of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. The rain was giving way, moving along in its path and easing its intensity that would cloud Jaskier’s vision.

Jaskier’s lip quivered both from the cold and the uncertainty. “I don’t understand why you are fighting this.” He murmured, fingers clenching against the heavy wool of Geralt’s coat. “I thought you had not even wanted to _be_ married. Why would you not take this chance to be free of the commitment that was asked of you?” He could not discern the emotions that flickered through Geralt’s sunflowered gaze, however, Jaskier could feel it upon him. Geralt’s attention solely centering itself toward Jaskier was nearly overwhelming.

Another sharp exhale, slow and measured, came from Geralt as his expression smoothed to stone. “You are a frustrating man, Jaskier of Lettenhove.”

“You are one to talk, aren’t you, dear?” Jaskier chuckled, the noise bubbling out from him as his body shook. The cold had gotten to him and he would certainly be bedridden for the next few days, but the worst of it was combated easily by Geralt’s considerate nature.

Another exhale, one that Jaskier could identify as Geralt’s breathy laugh, was the man’s immediate response. “You have all of that Oxenfurt education, all of that worldly experience, and yet you haven’t the slightest idea, do you?”

Jaskier huffed a breath, grateful that it was much warmer in the mere minutes that he had been cocooned into Geralt’s jacket. “I promise you I haven’t the faintest idea as to what your point is.” He blinked the remaining rainwater out of his gaze. “I might be educated, but I’m not a mind reader, Geralt.”

He spoke Geralt’s given name without meaning too; however, the tinge of tension that had drawn Geralt’s face taut seemed to release at the address. Perhaps it truly was something akin to hurt that Geralt had displayed when Jaskier had spoken his title rather than his name. Whatever it truly was, Geralt looked to him now with another soft sigh.

Gentler, as if luring in a bird, Geralt combed Jaskier’s hair behind his ear again. He kept his hand there, cupping Jaskier’s jaw with his warm palm. Jaskier was appreciative of the gesture but equal parts confused at the seemingly tender affection. His brow furrowed deeper on his forehead as he made to speak, but Geralt’s words came first.

“I remembered the tree.” Golden eyes twinkled like midnight stars before Jaskier as he spoke cautiously. “The tree on the east side of the grounds where you hid from your father.”

“What?” Jaskier breathed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I still don’t-”

“It’s my turn to speak now,” Geralt silenced him, lips curling into an amused smile. “You talk too much without saying anything.”

A surprised laugh rolled from Jaskier’s chest. “And you say nothing at all.” He blinked, shaking himself of the stunning revelation that something was happening just now. There was a moment rising above the rain as unpredictable as Geralt barging through the Lettenhove grounds in search of him.

Geralt snorted a laugh, shaking his head before turning that sunflower gaze to pierce Jaskier with a raised brow. “You are still talking.” He chided gently to which Jaskier responded with a cautious but impatient nod. Humming, Geralt cleared his throat and resumed whatever speech it seemed he had prepared for this. “I remembered the tree.” He repeated. “You said that you didn’t have a cello, so I had one crafted for you with your namesake. The name that you prefer. You would prefer a larger music room and you enjoy the sea.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier cut through his words. “This is perhaps the largest amount of words that you have ever spoken to me.”

He hummed under his breath though Jaskier could almost feel the vibration reverberating within his chest from their proximity. “What was it that you had said once? If I can but prove myself in a domain that is not my own nor of my comfort, perhaps I can prove my efforts genuine.”

Gawping, Jaskier released his right hand grip on the labels of Geralt’s coat, instead covering his gaping mouth as his own words were thrust upon him. He could remember it vividly, speaking to Geralt and asking for forgiveness in poetic words and gestures. Oh, that picnic that had been the downfall of Jaskier’s careful treading heart. How could he not recall the words in which he had tried best to convey his sincerity to Geralt? Only for now them to be repeated to him in kind.

“You… you remembered that?” He whispered, hands shaking even as the cold had already begun to abate from them.

“Why would I not have?” Geralt’s brow furrowed, silvered eyebrows drawing down into golden eyes until his sharp features were traced with determination. “Have I shown myself to be forgetful or unattentive when it comes to matters concerning you? Was I forgetful upon the meaning of your name? Was I forgetful when shortening our walks during the remains of summer?”

Jaskier shook his head vigorously, anxious to answer Geralt quickly. “Of course not. That is not what I meant.” He responded, hands moving to clutch at the shirt Geralt wore, a well worn linen that clung to his frame the longer they stood beneath the falling rain.

Geralt removed his hand from Jaskier’s jaw, placing both of his hands over Jaskier’s own grasp. Their hands were held between them as he continued to speak, words spilling forth like the rain - gentle but steady. “I have… I am not successful in the language of the bards of old.” He confessed as if it were a sin, as if his very being was a sin to be forgiven by Jaskier when Jaskier loved all of him.

“I am but my own man with my own tongue, but were it to be within my power I would let you know how fond I find myself to be of you. How often it is you haunt my thoughts even when I have been without your presence. Perhaps especially without your presence as the days without you seem to plague upon my mind heavily. It is torment without you, Jaskier.” His grip tightened, squeezing around Jaskier’s hands and drawing his frame closer. The squelching mud was a distant sound to that of Geralt’s breath against Jaskier’s face.

“Sweet Melitele.” Jaskier exclaimed in a murmur. His hands quivered beneath Geralt’s intimate touch, longing to thread their fingers together. To take this man’s hands in his own and hold him forever.

Geralt leaned forward, resting his forehead onto Jaskier’s drenched hair. “I am irrevocably in love with you, despite how maddening you are.” He confessed once again, or perhaps he had always been confessing this truth and it was only now that Jaskier could hear him. “When I had asked to court you first, I had done so in the hopes that you might grow used to the man that would be your husband. So that you would not despise the name you were to take. But I am selfish, Jaskier, and instead I took my time courting you to fall in love with you.”

With wide eyes, Jaskier swayed backward from Geralt’s hold to face him fully. “You asked for this.” He gasped. “ _You_ asked my mother for the courting period.”

Nodding, Geralt lifted Jaskier’s left hand to his lips, pressing the briefest of kisses upon the knuckles. “You will have to forgive me that what I had done for your benefit had turned into one for my indulgence.”

“Indulgence.” Jaskier let out a hysterical sounding laugh, shaking his head as he pressed himself into Geralt’s frame. Geralt’s shirt clung to his collarbone like a second skin and wore just as thin. It would have been scandalous had Jaskier been in the right state of mind to think of it. “I have gone mad. I must have slipped on my trek out into the rain, causing this illusion. The thick trunk of the tree must have slain my sanity and I now am in a land of fantasy. For how else or for whatever reason would you say such things if not they were derived from my own mind?”

“I’m not done yet.” Geralt huffed, causing Jaskier to draw backwards. He watched as Geralt’s gaze unfolded like a blooming flower. Those hands that held him tightened, securing Jaskier within his grasp as his eyes flickered in search of something.

Jaskier shook his head. There was no understanding what Geralt was searching for, not until he found it. “What more could you possibly have to say in the face of that revelation?” His breath came out sharp, his whisper heightening in pitch by the anxiety that seized him.

Grasping his chin, Geralt tilted Jaskier’s gaze to meet his own fully. The rain, although prominent and clinging to their skins, was transparent in the face of Geralt’s boldness. There were no heavy rain clouds nor previously had thunder. The mud did not soak through Jaskier’s boots nor did the weight of Geralt’s jacket when soaked feel heavy upon Jaskier’s shoulders. There was only Geralt and where he touched him.

He moved slowly, turning his head a quarter and encroaching further back into Jaskier’s space. Geralt made to guide him, to ask without asking, returning to his usual decorum of actions over words. Jaskier could be a man of action in this regard in the very least. There was no need for Geralt’s caution as if there was any other answer but yes. Jaskier surged forward, meeting Geralt halfway before capturing his lips within his own.

When Jaskier studied in Oxenfurt, he had read all manners of romantic poems and stories. Some were quite fabricated, others made to be historical accounts, but all of them Jaskier found to be lacking. None of them had quite encapsulated how this moment was meant to feel like. Bards of the ages and novelists could use all of their fancy and foreign words, but now he knew there could be no known word in any language to express the beauty of this kiss.

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier spoke urgently - _ardently_ \- before they had even drawn further apart than an inch of breath. He rested his head against Geralt’s chin, inhaling the sharp scent of Geralt’s cologne and the rainwater. “I love you with all of my heart, body, and soul. For whatever they are worth, they are yours.”

Geralt’s breath stuttered, one that Jaskier could only feel rather than hear. The man was always good at concealing himself, showing his emotions in small manners to be undetected rather than seen. Jaskier looked forward to knowing him, to continuing to learn him, to understanding this man’s chosen expressions.

Kissing softly at his wet locks, Geralt rested there for a moment in an intimate embrace with him. The action sent a small shiver crackling through Jaskier’s body as if he were struck by lightning. A moment of silence passed between them as they simply enjoyed one another’s company. The rain slowed, curtains turning into droplets as the grey clouds were carried on by the wind. Rainy weather being sent away only to return another season. And there would be more seasons of stormy weather, but there would always be this too. This with Geralt holding Jaskier after the rain was done and Jaskier holding him in turn.

After a moment, Geralt’s low voice spoke up, breaking the tranquility of the moment between them. “What are you going to do about Valdo Marx?”

Scoffing a laugh, Jaskier shook his head. “I suppose I could always duel him.” He teased, elation filling his heart too much that even mention of the Lord Valdo Marx could not deflate him.

“I doubt you have ever _seen_ a sword,” Geralt teased, golden gaze cast in an ethereal glow, “Much less used one, Jaskier. I do not think that course of action would end in your favor.”

Jaskier chewed at his lip, a nasty habit that not even Oxenfurt’s finest etiquette teacher could break him from. Contemplating his words, Jaskier curled his grip into the front of Geralt’s shirt. “I have another confession to admit to you, Geralt of Rivia.” He began slowly. “It’s a rather long story, but it answers something you once asked of me long ago.”

Furrowing his brow, Geralt raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. At Geralt’s wordless urging, Jaskier continued. He chuckled nervously, fingers tracing along the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. “Do you remember when you asked me why the Duke of Temeria would want to meet with a musician in Oxenfurt?”

“Yes.” Geralt answered, his word drawn slow and cautiously from his mouth as he eyed Jaskier carefully. His shoulders grew tense and his grip slackened as if ready to pull away if provoked. He was a careful soldier to the last.

“It began when I first arrived at Oxenfurt. The Queen, you see, was searching for a new army. One that could fight with secrecy and shadows.” Jaskier inhaled steadily, releasing his hold on Geralt and grasping the lapels of the heavy coat instead.

Geralt nodded, hands moving as if to follow Jaskier’s own before retreating to his sides. “I recall them, yes.” That golden gaze urged Jaskier’s words onward even as his demeanor shifted into something guarded.

Giving a fluttering laugh, Jaskier smiled. “I suppose since you and I are to be wed I cannot be faulted for divulging the state in which I spent the war years.”

“You were in Oxenfurt.” Geralt’s brow furrowed, studying the words that came from Jaskier’s mouth with careful examination. “You were studying the Seven Liberal Arts.”

Jaskier clicked his tongue. Shaking his head, he gently touched at Geralt’s hands at his sides. “Actually, most of my years were spent much farther away from home than Oxenfurt, my love.”

A curious brow raised along Geralt’s forehead, an inquisitive nature making its way into his demeanor as his stance shifted into something less guarded. Before Jaskier could divulge further information, the approach of a familiar face ceased his words. The maid, Amelia, called out to them from a distance. Geralt turned to face her momentarily before returning his attention to Jaskier. He attempted to open his mouth, most likely in question, before Jaskier placed a singular finger to his lips and halted the movement.

“Later.” Jaskier promised. “I swear it.”

Geralt silently contemplated for a moment, churning Jaskier’s words with a hum before grasping his wrist and pulling Jaskier’s knuckles to his mouth instead. “You kept your word to the point of detriment already.” He murmured, soft lips dancing across Jaskier’s skin like skaters upon a frozen lake. “I do not imagine that you would contradict yourself now. Unless, of course, you decide to leave my letters unaddressed again.”

Flushing at the thought, Jaskier shifted to stand beside him, grasping the crook of Geralt’s elbow and keeping close under the guise of seeking warmth. “Never again, Geralt dear.” He swore again. “To the best of my abilities, I shall refrain from closing off communication in such a way.” He smiled, returning Geralt’s tease. “You hold your tongue often enough for the both of us.”

A chuckle escaped Geralt, sounding through his nose before he moved them toward the maid. It seemed Amelia’s presence returned Geralt to his reticent manner. Not that Jaskier minded. Now he knew Geralt spoke when he felt he needed to. When actions were not enough, and it was not often that Geralt’s actions were not enough. Jaskier could laugh at his foolish nature, pridefully fast to act and quick to avoid meditation on thoughts.

Geralt was right. Something must be done about the Lord Valod Marx. Even if perhaps the man had not started these horrendous rumors against the Baron’s name, he had facilitated them. He had spread them amongst the people of Jaskier’s home and spoke against Jaskier’s promised and father-in-law-to-be. He could not let the slight lie least he roll over to Lord Marx’s remarks for the rest of his days. And he would not allow the Lord Valdo Marx to lord anything over neither him nor his family should it be within his power to halt it.


	8. Chapter Eight: The Queen

“I still find it difficult to comprehend that you were a  _ spy _ ,” Geralt shook his head, disbelief coloring his tone as he led Roach beside Jaskier and Pegasus. They had ridden to the trail before dismounting and allowing their pace to be gentle. It was wonderful weather for it, Jaskier thought, and he was happy to breathe in fresh air after having been bedridden from the rain a week prior.

Scoffing, Jaskier tightened his grip on Pegasus’ reins before reminding himself to allow more slack. “You say that as if I would appear incapable of such secrecy.”

Geralt turned away, Jaskier could only wonder if he turned to hide his amusement before returning his gaze to the path. “Secrecy? No.” He hummed. “But you are fond of gossip, and this does explain how you would have facilitated that passion.”

“No, my dear,” Jaskier clicked his tongue. “Oxenfurt is a stage of drama and would have been more than enough salacious content for my ballads to have survived years after.” Quietly, Geralt laughed along with Jaskier at the jest. Silence fell between them graciously before Jaskier resumed the conversation, worry sweating at his palms. “It truly does not bother you?”

Offering a pensive hum, Geralt continued his pace evenly. “Why should it?” He spoke after a moment. “My title of Butcher does not plague your mind, so why should what you did in service to your country plague mine?”

“Your service was nothing less.” Jaskier defended. “You had your duty to your country, to the Queen.”

Although Geralt looked disbelieving at Jaskier’s conviction, he let the conversation topic fall like the burning leaves around them. He hummed instead, turning to murmur something toward Roach that Jaskier could have no hope of understanding.

”Have you decided, then?” Geralt inquired softly, drawing conversation forth once more.

Jaskier inhaled the autumn scent sharply before shaking his head. “You have already advised me that I should let the grievance pass as nothing more has been uttered against your family or mine.” He offered an earnest smile to Geralt. “But I know this man and the lengths at which he would go to compete against my name, fortune, talent, and to whom I am to be wed. Lord Valdo Marx does not know either honor or decency. If I allow him to continue without recompense, he will continue to roll these lies and like balls made from the snow, the more they move the larger they will grow.”

Geralt nodded, acquiescing to the point. “Then I suppose it  _ is _ decided then.” He spoke simply. “You do wish to confront him.”

“Yes,” sighing, Jaskier fiddled with Pegasus’ reins in his hands. “I suppose it is.” Sighing once more, this time much louder and more dramatic, Jaskier cast his gaze heaven-bound. “It would make a ballad for the ages, wouldn’t it? Confronting my long-time musical rival while defending my promised’s honor on this the week of our debuting audition for the Nightingale Orchestra?”

A smirk played across Geralt’s features as he pointed an equally amused eyebrow toward Jaskier. “And I thought it was only Valdo Marx who thought of himself in that fashion.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, huffing in retaliation before he could compose the proper response. “Are you simply going to remember every last thing I have mentioned over the duration of our courtship so that you might hold me to it?”

“Yes,” Geralt teased, smirk widening as he pulled Roach to a stop. Jaskier followed suit, halting Pegasus and furrowing his brow in silent question. “Do you hear that?” Turning to face Jaskier, Geralt’s smirk fell from his face and continued to do so until his features set into a frown. With his attention drawn to the noise and silence between them, Jaskier could indeed hear something. Muffled voices slowly beginning to rise into the autumn sky and carried on the biting wind alerted Jaskier to the fact they were not alone in this moment.

“Why did you stop?” The call came from behind them, reminding Jaskier they had  _ not _ been alone and merely given the illusion of privacy as Lambert and Eskel rode at a distance behind. Lambert’s frown was harsh. He seemed to have taken the threat of breaking off the marriage most grievously. Perhaps he no longer trusted that Jaskier would not write away their marriage at a whim.

Eskel seemed just as cautious; however, he was much better at hiding such grievances than Lambert. His demeanor was stalwart and Jaskier could recall Geralt’s near marching when they had last strolled with one another. It was something ingrained within them during the war, trained and beaten into them until it was the only manners they could remember. Jaskier could not nor would he blame their weariness. He could only hope to contradict his brash actions and prove himself loyal.

It was not that Geralt had not informed his brothers of the reason behind Jaskier’s actions. It was not as if Jaskier were not able to defend his own actions; it merely was a protectiveness that ran fiercely through the Wolves of Kaer Morhen. For that, Jaskier could never begrudge Lambert and Eskel of their measured nature and responses.

“Shouting,” Eskel answered Lambert’s inquiry before either Geralt or Jaskier could. He seemed to sniff at the air for a moment. Jaskier wondered if perhaps he was using his other senses and he could remember the fires that Nilfgaard seemed fond of. The burns that marred the Redenia soldiers.

Jaskier could feel the tension stale the air. He watched as Geralt mounted Roach, following shortly by mounting Pegasus. Geralt nodded toward Lambert and Eskel, perhaps a long-forgotten silent communication once used when they had to ambush Nilfgaard. Jaskier could only hope to understand, following as they hurried along the path toward the source of the shouting.

The trees gave way to a clearing decorated for some small event the further they followed along the path. A crowd had gathered around the festivities, small but large enough for their voices to carry. There was a small bandstand to the opposite side of the clearing from which Jaskier and his company had entered. Beside the bandstand stood another tent with its walls set up securely, holding things to which Jaskier could only guess were possible for the small crowd’s entertainment.

Placed in the center of the crowd was some sort of impromptu podium that allowed a performing figure to stand above the crowd. They seemed riled as the performer spoke, his musical instrument forgotten and leaning carelessly against the podium as his voice carried along to the ears of his audience and stirred discord within them.

“Bloody Marx!” Lambert cursed, dismounting his horse with vigor. Eskel quickly followed and stood beside Lambert with equal amounts of fury painted onto his features.

“Wait,” Jaskier asked of them, halting their movements with his hand outstretched and quiet word. Taking their moment of pause to his advantage, Jaskier dismounted Pegasus, using the loose hold of the reins to trail the steed after him. He steadied himself with a breath before he called for the Lord Valdo Marx’s - and subsequently his audience’s - attention.

Jaskier grinned as he called out. “Lord Valdo Marx!” He laughed. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Lord Marx turned, looking shocked for a moment until he shook composure into his features. “Julian!” He chuckled. “Whatever brings you here?”

“I was taking a pleasant stroll with the man to whom I am promised to.” Jaskier sighed dreamily, playing up his fondness for a dramatic effect. “That is until our peaceful afternoon was rudely interrupted by the screeching of some dying owl.” He gestured in an exaggerated manner with his free hand, composing a symphony for the play he was putting forth as he spoke. “I should have known it was  _ you _ .”

Gasping at the affront, Lord Marx had the audacity to appear shocked at Jaskier’s blunt manner of speaking. “Is the  _ gentlemanly  _ attitude that you have stooped to, Julian?” Lord Marx rebutted. “Squabbling like a young man, flighty with the need to fight?”

Jaskier squared his shoulders, fighting to retain a loose grasp on Pegasus’ reins to accommodate the steed. “It seems your skin is the one that is itching for a fight, Lord Marx. You have already thrown the glove.” Inhaling sharply, Jaskier raised his chin in that familiar gesture of Countess Vengerberg. “I am merely picking it up.”

Lord Marx’s grin was a vile, slimy thing that crept across his features like a worm upon the warm soil. But there was not a note of that inherently natural beauty that came with the worms and their soil. Instead, there was only Lord Marx’s intentions, his teeth glistening with a purpose. “So? You have risen with the gauntlet, little Julian.” Lord Marx stepped off of his makeshift podium. “What shall we do? You want a duel and it is a duel you shall have.”

Bristling, Jaskier strode forward, Pegasus following with a gentle step behind his motion. “If beating you in our auditions will not be enough of a humiliation for you, name a time and a place, Lord Marx.”

Jaskier was only vaguely aware of their audience's gasps and titters alighting as he provoked and was provoked in turn. “Why not right here?” Lord Marx laughed, arms gesturing wide at the clearing that surrounded them before snapping his fingers. Men whom Jaskier assumed to be part of Lord Marx’s entourage hurried quickly to the sealed tent as the man himself continued. “Why not right now?” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Unless, of course, our delicate weed isn’t ready.”

“You seem very confident in your skills, Lord Marx.” Geralt’s voice spoke up from beside Jaskier. And when had that man strode forward to stand beside him? That calculating gaze flickered across Lord Marx’s frame, analyzing as any fighter was of wont to do before the battle. It flattered Jaskier that Geralt should stand beside him in the face of Lord Marx’s remarks.

Lord Marx guffawed, throwing his head back for a moment and returning his shark-like eyes to Geralt’s gaze. “I can assure you, Lord Rivia, that I received the finest education in swordplay at Oxenfurt.” He spoke with gall, winking lasciviously as he stepped out of his audience’s eye. Jaskier scoffed at the ill-attempted innuendo. “Now, our Julian on the other hand, I don’t remember a  _ day _ where he had attended Professor Fabian’s  _ Fencing In The Modern Age _ .”

“No,” Jaskier steeled his voice. “I did not attend. I was one of the few who hadn’t needed the elective to learn how to handle my sword.” He let his words take on the delicate double edge that Lord Marx had attempted to don and bluntly wield against Geralt.

Geralt, for his part, had a reaction to neither. His stoic features remained to pierce to Lord Marx’s sneer. The two young men that Lord Marx had sent to the closed tent hurried to his side, bowing their heads as the taller of the men called for Lord Marx’s attention. The sneer on Lord Marx’s face turned upright, twisting his features into anticipation as he turned his gaze to the two swords the footmen held aloft.

“Épée?” Jaskier furrowed his brow as he examined the blades. “I would have thought you were of the sabre discipline.”

“Oh, but Julian, the sabre is the gentlemanly sport,” Lord Marx smiled widely as he snatched the sword from the tallest man’s grip. “I should think that you were used to ignoring the restrictions of below the waist. Or does the épée intimidate you, Julian?”

Jaskier could feel his face become red. It was not humiliation that burned the apples of his cheeks, but rather an indignation. “I  _ always _ play by the rules set by my partner, Valdo,” Jaskier spoke sharply. “I will not ask you twice if you are certain to remain on the course that you have set.”

Lord Marx was momentarily stunned, thumb pausing in its careless strokes against the blade. “It seems our little flower grew some thorns over the season.” He quipped.

With another snap of his fingers, Lord Marx beckoned the second sword to be handed to Jaskier. Wordlessly, Geralt offered out his hand for the reins of Pegasus. Jaskier inhaled sharply, his eyebrow raised in silent question that Geralt answered with a gentle tilt of his chin. A single nod. Jaskier handed him the reins.

“Thank you.” Jaskier bowed his head to the second man, taking note of the surprise the young footman displayed. The blade was fairly light despite its large appearance, though Jaskier expected that. The épée was the heaviest of the three disciplines. Already Jaskier was turning over thoughts in his mind of how Lord Marx might fight. He had never seen the Lord touch any blade, much like the assumption that Geralt had made of Jaskier himself that short week ago.

Épée fencing was a sport of anticipation. Many considered it to be like chess. Not only would a combatant carefully conduct their own moves, but one would also have to weigh the possible moves of their opponent. Counter attacking the opposition was a popular move, but risky. Unless done correctly, a combatant might open themselves for their opponent to score a point.

“And who will be our director?” Jaskier held the grip in his hand firmly, accustoming himself to the weight of the blade and pommel. “We  _ are _ playing to the traditional point system, are we not?”

“But of course!” Lord Marx laughed. “Though, I would hardly consider a duel  _ playing _ , Julian. Really, could you make it any more obvious that you have never held a sword in your life?”

At this quip, Jaskier’s fingers twitched. A curious eyebrow quirked momentarily on Geralt’s face as Jaskier readjusted his grip, fingers splaying in a faulting hold that would have broken his hand in actual combat. If the Lord Marx considered Jaskier an unskilled swordsman, that would be the advantage he could press.

“My apologies.” Jaskier grinned insincerely. “But your proposition for a director for this impromptu duel of ours? I assume we still need one, despite the severity of the situation.”

“I am not a savage, Julian.” Lord Marx huffed. “I have brought my valet. He shall be our director.”

An umbrageous snort sounded from behind Jaskier. “Your valet? As if we won’t challenge tha’.” Lambert’s voice carried from Jaskier’s left as both Lambert and Eskel came to stand on Jaskier’s side opposite of Geralt.

Flustered, Lord Marx took a moment to find his voice. “And who would  _ you  _ suggest to be an impartial director? Certainly not  _ you _ .” Lord Marx scoffed. “Even if you did know anything about the finer arts of the sword, you’re the brother to Jaskier’s betrothed.”

“What of your footman?” Jaskier proposed. “He seems to know his way around the blade.”

“And why would my footman be any less impartial to my efforts against you than my valet?” Lord Marx furrowed his brow, resting the hand that did not clutch at his épée on his hip. “It seems that cold of yours has made you suffer dearly, Julian.”

Jaskier laughed, tilting his head back. “If your footman declares you the winner, hurrah for him. I expect he’ll receive a nice bonus. If your footman announces myself as the winner, I imagine he would be seeking employment, hmm?” A smirk danced across Jaskier’s features, pulling at his cheeks. “As it so happens, I have been looking for a footman to help service my horse since I find myself riding more often.” Turning to the footman in question, the shorter of the two, Jaskier smiled. “I would promise a nice pay, but then it would look just as much bribery as the Lord Marx’s valet directing us.”

“A footman!” Lord Marx scoffed, face turning to a shade of purple. “Of all the things-!”

“It sounds fair to me,” Eskel commented, eyeing Lord Marx’s audience. “I think not even your posse might disagree with that.”

There were few attempts to speak on Lord Marx’s part, but no words came forth. Instead, he fumed silently before striding over toward the farthest edge of the clearing that had neither path nor tent taking up its space. “Then let’s get started, shall we?” He demanded, calling Jaskier to his side.

Jaskier and both of Lord Marx’s footmen strode closer, Geralt and his brothers remaining behind with their audience. Already it seemed sweat began to bead upon Lord Marx’s forehead despite the cooler weather. Fighting not to let his smugness show, Jaskier fiddled awkwardly with his grip on the  _ épée _ . He furrowed his brow for a moment, looking to the clearing and the way the tent was spaced away from this spot. It looked very deliberate short of a  _ piste _ being placed.

“You planned this,” Jaskier spoke softly, the words carrying only to Lord Marx who stood across from him. “You wanted me to find you here, didn’t you?”

Lord Marx laughed haughtily. “Oh, please, Julian. You’re speaking of it as if it were  _ difficult _ .” He swished the blade through the air in front of him, flaunting some showmanship before his audience. “It wasn’t hard to guess where your flea-ridden dog would take you after your recovery.”

Steeling himself, Jaskier held the blade in front of him. It was steadying, holding a blade like this. He had forgotten himself, forgotten to feign ignorance for the chance of advantage in this game of Lord Marx’s. He felt his muscles twitch, ready to perform the once overly familiar motions of combat.

“Valdo.” Jaskier warned.” You have disgraced my name, slandered my good reputation, and provoked me into things a civilized man ought not to do.” A sharp exhale escaped Jaskier as his foot took the front position and he poised himself into a parrying position. “You will regret the things I am willing to do should you not apologize to my fiancé.”

It occurred to Jaskier, distantly, that he was not yet engaged to Geralt and he was not to be engaged to Geralt until after their courting. However, he could not find it within himself to regret the slip of decorum. Perhaps if the gaze he could feel upon his shoulders was any source of judgment, he could consider his crime forgiven.

Lord Marx’s demeanor paled and his throat clenched as he audibly gulped. “Take up your position, Julian.” He hissed, holding his épée out for their director to take. He shrugged off his coat, throwing it to the taller footman who had hurried to catch it.

Once the shorter footman returned the sword to Lord Marx’s hand, he offered out his hands for Jaskier’s sword so that he might also remove his coat. While Jaskier had no wish to be without his coat in the cold and without the extra layer to protect from the looming onslaught of Lord Marx’s thrusts, he knew the range of his arm would be limited in this coat.

Handing off his sword gratefully, Jaskier removed his coat. He folded it over his arm before considering that he might just have to throw it to the ground anyway.  _ He _ had not been expecting this. He brought no footmen or valet with him. Before Jaskier could toss his coat to the ground, a hand landed on his forearm and halted the movement.

A hand Jaskier recognized, his gaze trailing up that arm until he was caught in the gaze of a golden stare. Silently, Geralt took the coat out of Jaskier’s arms. “It’s useless to tell you not to show off, isn't it?”

Jaskier grinned, taking the sword back from the footman with another gracious nod. “Of course, my dear heart.” He teased.

With a smile that Jaskier was beginning to label as  _ affectionate _ , Geralt stepped back to stand with the crowd, his brothers bracketing him like a wolf pack. Jaskier steadied himself with a slow inhale, turning on his heel to face Lord Marx.

“Shall we begin?” He watched Lord Marx smirk, already beginning to take up an offensive position. If the Lord Marx was not careful, he would overplay his hand and it would be all too easy for Jaskier to capture points against him.

The director had not even called for them to begin before Lord Marx descended upon Jaskier, épée slashing through the air with the attempt to strike Jaskier’s side. He parried quickly, stepping back to provide space between himself and Lord Marx’s overzealous blade.

For all that Jaskier doubted him, Lord Marx  _ was _ skilled with a blade. He had been taught at Oxenfurt. But the man had never known real combat, that much was clear. His flourishes were this side of flashing, and while Jaskier had been sorely tempted to join him in the façade, one glance cast toward Geralt had choked that effort.

Jaskier had a goal, and that goal was to protect his family name. The family name he was born with and the family name he would marry into. Lord Marx was entitled to his opinions but with that, he was entitled to the consequence of those opinions. Jaskier would be damned before he let the slight stand again. Not when he had this moment to quite possibly silence Lord Marx against him forever.

A strike to his left, parry. A thrust forward, a step back. A point is given to the Lord Marx whose overzealous combat granted him luck. A strike to the right, parry. A thrust forward, a step back. A point is given to Jaskier as Lord Marx’s foot slid. Jaskier’s arm ached and his chest had begun to bruise. While Lord Marx’s épées had been blunted at their tips, that did not make these weapons any less dangerous. Perhaps there was something else in the glint of Lord Marx’s eyes. Perhaps he had been seeking to grievously injure Jaskier. There were little maiming capabilities to be had, but without the proper suit, they would both certainly be laid up.

Jaskier could only hope his arm would heal before the audition. Grunting, Jaskier jumped back to avoid another near hit from Lord Marx. The Lord laughed in reply, his sweat turning his pale skin into something glistening.

“You’re quick, Julian.” He panted. “Wherever  _ did  _ you learn to hold a blade like that?” Lord Marx teased. “The backroom of Oxenfurt?” The interrogation was matched with a clash of their blades together, Lord Marx pressing his weight into the blow. “Or a professor's room?” He sneered, teeth sharp within the confines of his mouth as his beady eyes flickered over Jaskier’s form.

With a shout, Jaskier suddenly pushed him, throwing Lord Marx off balance. The Lord stumbled, righting himself quickly but not before Jakier landed another hit to the side of his knee. Another point, parry. Continue.

“Come on, Julian.” Lord Marx teased once more, goading Jaskier into a heavy strike that the man easily avoided. How could it be that Jaskier was of such silent renown within the great war, and yet Lord  _ bloody  _ Marx could enrage him to a point beyond thinking?

Jaskier’s mind wandered to Geralt, waiting within the audience. Geralt, who had advised him to let the grievance be as people would say what they wanted. Geralt, who had quite possibly never had anyone defend his name against the cry of Butcher other than the men who he considered brothers.

Lord Marx snickered, readying another retort before Jaskier interrupted him. “Valdo.” Jaskier spat, heaving a breath. “Do you ever stop  _ talking _ ?” He swore there was a cry of  _ hypocrite _ somewhere within the crowd, but Jaskier kept his eyes firmly to Lord Marx’s footwork. A strike, a parry. A knee leaning toward the left but eyes darting to the right. Lord Marx struck, épée slicing through the air and making to hit Jaskier’s right arm. Jaskier brought his blade upward, pushing and stepping toward Lord Marx’s form. His balance was thrown once again, spiraling. A strike, a  _ counter strike _ , two points.

“Lord Lettenhove,” cried their director. “The final point goes to the Viscount de Lettenhove.”

“ _ What? _ !” Lord Marx screeched, sounding all the more like a dying owl. “What do you  _ mean _ -?!”

For the second time that afternoon, Lord Marx was interrupted. The sound of a trumpet announcing the presence of some notable title drew their attention. Toward the clearing where Jaskier and his company had originally entered was an entourage that would cause Jaskier’s father envy. Banners of the royal family of Cintra draped from the trumpet that had blown. Before either man could raise their voice a regal young woman stepped out, eyeing the scene before her. With her presence every head bowed, some servants taking a knee and women gripping their skirts tightly.

“I was told my godfather was out here.” A blonde brow quirked in amusement. “Then I heard there was something of a  _ sword fight _ happening.” She turned her regale gaze toward Geralt. “Geralt, could you imagine my surprise now that I see it isn’t  _ you _ at the other end of the blade?”

Geralt grunted, his demeanor looking utterly soft in the presence of this nobility. “It is a surprise even to myself.”

“Though it should come as no surprise that it is your betrothed who holds the blade.” She laughed and her voice sounded like a bird song for a woman who had seen such horrors at a young age.

“Fiancé.” Lambert corrected with a laugh. His hand collided with a solid sound against Geralt’s shoulder with the tease. “Apparently.” He winked, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder within his grip.

Those mystical eyes blazed with amusement before turning their attention toward Lord Marx and Jaskier. “Am I too late to watch?”

When neither Jaskier nor Lord Marx spoke up, the footman who had been acting as their director cleared his throat. He bowed deeply, eyes never leaving the grass in front of his feet as he spoke. “My lady, I’ve just announced Lord de Lettenhove as this afternoon’s winner.”

“Oh, good.” She smiled brightly, gliding toward Geralt. The crowd parted for her easily, either murmuring or standing in hushed awe. “I wanted to sup with my godfather and his betrothed. It would be a pity if Lord Lettenhove’s company had to be preoccupied with this.”

Beside him, Jaskier watched Lord Marx’s once flushed skin pale. “Your…” he began with a whisper. “Lord Rivia’s goddaughter is  _ the Queen of Cintra _ .” He looked horrified, eyes wide and knees locked where he stood.

Jaskier let out a surprised laugh, drawing the attention of those present to him. He was in near hysterics, the sore arm holding his bruised stomach as Jaskier bowed his head. Once he had stood for air, face turned toward the heavens, he had beamed at Lord Marx. “Don’t worry, Valdo.” He spoke lightly. “You look just as stupid now as you did  _ before _ the Queen of Cintra entered into the clearing.

The footman held out his hands, taking the sword from Jaskier's loosening grip. He smiled at the man, taking a mental note to give him a raise upon his hiring after Lord Marx's inevitable firing of the good man. Jaskier limped, body beginning to ache now that the adrenaline slowly seeped out of him. His smile was twinged with his ache, but he refused to break his posture as he approached Queen Cirilla.

"Your Majesty," he bowed his head, holding his hand to his bruised side.

"Jaskier, was it?" The Queen hummed. "Geralt's written quite a lot about you already." Her face was soft - her smile inviting - as she silently beckoned Jaskier to stand. "I see you really are a fighter, even after all of this time."

Jaskier's eyes widened, his breath knocked from him more than any of Lord Marx's blows had done. "You remember me, Your Majesty?"

She rolled her eyes, hands moving to rest atop the coat draped over Geralt's elbow. "Of course I do, Master Dandelion." Queen Cirilla looked over their audience, the men and women enraptured in her words. "Though, best if we speak of that privately." Her laugh was just as light as it was upon the first. Jaskier could see the heaviness set upon her shoulder, the years she had gained since he had last seen her.

"You've aged wonderfully, my lady." He spoke truthfully. "Your grandmother would be proud," Jaskier added gently, hoping that the whisper would make the memory of the dearly departed a softer blow.

"Thank you." Queen Cirilla bowed her head, her expressive eyes flashing for a moment and returning to that dark time before she was beaming at her godfather. "Now are you boys done playing? Can we go eat now?"

Geralt smiled gently, a soft thing that was certainly more noticeable in Queen Cirilla's presence. Beside him, Lambert clicked his tongue with disappointment. "There wasn't even anything dramatic. No grand gesture! No last-minute blow!"

"Please," Eskel rolled his eyes. "I doubt the Lord Valdo Marx would find himself capable of raising his arm much higher than his waist after that counter-attack from Jaskier."

Lambert offered a grin similar to the one Jaskier remembered on their first meeting when a silvered tongue had impressed both Lambert and Eskel. "If you don't marry him, Geralt, I'll have to." He teased lightly, pinching at Geralt's cheeks until the latter shoved the man off of him. Eskel and Lambert chattered away, enthralling Queen Cirilla in the circumstances that had led them to there. However, Jaskier could not help but think that Lambert was right in his thoughts. After all of that trouble that Lord Marx had stirred, all of the tension and uncertainty that had been built due to his antagonizing, it was simply over.

Jaskier paused in his steps, furrowing his brow as Geralt offered him his coat. "Lambert's right."

"Don't let him hear you say that." Geralt quipped easily.

"No, I mean it." Jaskier continued, choosing to hold his coat rather than replace it on his shoulders. "I mean... after all this time, I had expected Lord Marx to play dirty. Or perhaps even the dramatic reveal of the Queen as your goddaughter would have made a more lasting impression than him simply worming away." He sighed with a pout. "What a disappointing end."

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. The crowd had long since dispersed, no longer interested now that there was not a drama to be had or a Queen to entertain. "But it's not the end, is it?" Geralt eventually offered. "I mean that you still have your audition with the orchestra, do you not? We have yet to be married." He spoke slowly and Jaskier's heart clenched in his chest as he watched Geralt pluck his words once more in that always endearing sort of way.

"No," he chuckled. "I suppose your right. It's not the end." Jaskier smiled, leaning against Geralt as they began to follow the rest of Geralt's unconventional family. "Just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another."

A hand, solid and warm, held against the small of Jaskier's back. Their steps were measured, Jaskier's limp returning as he began to follow Geralt's lead. He snorted a laugh, drawing Geralt's attention. There was no verbal question, only more of Geralt's silent communication.

Jaskier let out another laugh. "I don’t know. It just feels as if something is missing. A near complete novelette that is missing one factor to feel satisfying.”

“Would you…” Geralt hesitated, fingers flexing against Jaskier’s shirt. “Would you like me to kiss you?”

Pausing in their steps once more so that Jaskier could turn to face him, he could not help but to smile brightly even through his bruised pain. “I think that would be the  _ perfect  _ ending to this story, Geralt.”

Geralt’s actions, while usually bold and confident, were dulled in this moment. He moved slowly, a sensual turn of his head as his hand cradled Jaskier’s chin and drew him forward. With the autumn wind beginning to whistle around them, with Geralt’s soft lips atop Jaskier’s own, perhaps it was not too terrible an ending to the story of how Geralt and Jaskier succeeded in their courtship.

A sudden shout drew them apart, eyes jerking toward the outburst. Where Roach had taken to a sentinel post beside one of the clearing’s exists, it seemed the Lord Marx had attempted to escape unseen. The man held his hand to his chest, face red and twisted in a shout. His valet looked to be in danger of fainting. Roach moved quickly, large teeth sniping again as Lord Marx scrambled away.

Once more Jaskier nearly buckled with his laughter. This time, Geralt laughed gently beside him. After Jaskier righted himself with Geralt’s help, he beamed. “Now,  _ that _ is the perfect ending to this story."

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oI68uY0WfaE) is where the title comes from and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IymRiw7k8DE) is Cavatine.


End file.
